Eligor cowled the two small neck-wings about his head protectively and slitted his eyes, studying the two aides for a brief instant. They would have to be dealt with first and quickly.
He grasped his lance and threw it vertically as hard as he could. The three demons, jaws agape, stared up at it for just long enough for Eligor to raise his hands and create two destructive glyphs—glyphs that Sargatanas had taught him—which he fired into the bony torsos of the flanking aides. They each looked down in amazement as a livid fiery script from within burst them apart. With a snarl, Scrofur leveled his halberd and attacked, and Eligor, with the deftness and assurance of one well practiced, reached out and felt his descending lance slide into his waiting hand. Dodging sideways, he parried, evaded the other’s strike, and lashed out, feeling his jagged blade tear satisfyingly at the officer’s wings. It was not a painful wound, but it was a telling one. The Demon Minor lurched and spun as his wings tried to compensate for their sudden loss of effectiveness. He stabbed out desperately and caught Eligor under his cowl and behind the ear-hole, chipping the bone and causing him to wince and pull back.
Shaking his head, Eligor twisted back in and determinedly focused on his opponent’s wings, slicing and tearing while evading the hurricane of blows that Scrofur was dealing. As they fought they both dropped lower and lower toward the battling legionaries below, who reached up with their pole arms in a vain effort to hook the demons. Ribbons of slashed wing-flesh gathered and swirled around Astaroth’s officer as he tried to stay out of Eligor’s lance’s reach, but the inevitability of the fight must have been apparent to him. Wings beating twice as hard as his opponent’s, Scrofur’s breath came out in great, stentorian coughs.
With a move as graceful as it was deadly, Eligor whirled and severed one of Scrofur’s wings at the elbow-joint. Pulling his lance free, he stabbed again at the reeling demon, thrusting unerringly and deeply into the demon’s gaping heart-hole. Amidst a blaze of ruby light Scrofur began to collapse into himself, shrinking and compacting until he was nothing more than a hand-sized flattened disk adorned with his frozen face and glowing sigil. Teeth bared in a smile, Eligor snatched at the tumbling trophy and, holding it tightly to his breast, watched as it fused to his bone breastplate—a permanent phalera imbued with the powers that had been Scrofur’s.
Eligor paused, wings beating slowly, and breathed in deeply. A palpable ripple of pleasure warmed him, causing him to relax momentarily. As he dropped even farther, three heavy, hooked pole arms came up to greet him from Astaroth’s legionaries waiting below and he immediately flapped his wings hard, shooting upward.
Dodging knots of winged combatants, he flew back to his lord. The front line had slowly bowed backward, not, he knew, because of Astaroth’s legions’ ferocity but because Sargatanas had ordered it so. The mounted Spirits had curved around behind the enormous force of enemy legions and were driving them in upon themselves. Pushed irresistibly together, their formations mingled, losing cohesion. And facing them in the now-inflexible shield-wall of Sargatanas’ army, poised like an arrow at their breast, were Faraii’s troops, honing their ax-hands upon their rough greaves and bellowing in anticipation of the slaughter to come.
From a few hundred feet away Eligor spotted Sargatanas, falcata in hand, a dark form limned in the fiery light of his Great Seal, standing against a backdrop of fluttering banners. Watching with unwavering attentiveness the battle unfolding and without turning toward him, the Demon Major issued Eligor his flying orders.
* * * * *
He assumed his place at the head of a giant wedge of his Flying Guard and ordered them to drop down. The five hundred closely packed flying demons swooped over the middle of Astaroth’s confused legions, harrying them with their long lances from above. Eligor heard the shrill whine of arrows passing close to him. He saw a wavering sheet of another flight, poorly arrayed, arc up from behind the enemy legions only to bounce ineffectively off his and his demons’ shields. He could not tell if they had been aimed at his troops or Sargatanas’ but saw few gaps in his lord’s legions below.
Diving headlong, Eligor led his troops into a slashing attack designed to help the Spirits gut the rear forces of Astaroth’s middle legion. Stabbing lances and weighted sinew nets reached up from the enemy troops in a vain attempt to claw his demons from the sky, but the Guard was far too well trained to fall victim to these tactics and, with wings flapping furiously, darted into their midst. His lance connected with both a standard-bearer and a legionary with a satisfying jolt, impaling and lifting them as one, and he watched them crumble away into falling piles of rubble that tumbled onto their comrades. He hovered, seeing how the ash blown up from his wings, and the Guard’s behind him, disoriented the enemy legionaries, and taking advantage of their confusion, he proceeded to spear one after another. The smoking rubble grew in mounds, making the footing treacherous for the enemy troops.
Eligor felt that long-missed exhilaration—the Passion, he called it—come over him; it had been a millennium, at least, since he had been in full combat.
With the Passion brought on by the cumulative brutal physicality of it all, he smiled as he thrust and jabbed and lost all sense of time. The battle-change was common enough—every demon he had ever spoken with had experienced it in some way, called it something. And every one had spoken of it with open yearning. Had the Fall changed them that much? He had often tried to remember if he had felt the same Passion during the War, fighting the Cherubim, the Seraphim, but found that he could not.
Eligor pulled back and up and watched his Guard slice into the legionaries again and again. Directly beneath him he saw a centurion’s head explode from the impact of a lance driven through his eye socket. And then, seconds later, one of Eligor’s own was pulled down and ripped apart. It was the give-and-take of war, something he was used to, but in this battle, he knew, there would be far more taking of life than giving. He watched rank after rank fall beneath the Guard’s lances, leaving a trail of rock worthy of a mountainside. As he had hoped, the enemy beneath him began to waver, with small clots of soldiers trying to protect their backs, nulling in tight clumps or striking out blindly. And better than that, some began to run forward pell-mell, trampling their comrades, pushing into the already-crowded legions ahead of them. It would take little time; the panic they had created in the rear of Astaroth’s formation would affect the entire army’s cohesion.
Still thrusting and parrying, Eligor made his way to his lieutenant, Metaphrax Argastos, a former cherub whose laconic demeanor was counterpoint to his exuberant bravery upon the battlefield. Like himself, the wiry many-tailed demon was caked in dark, smoking ash and was grinning as his wings beat furiously and his lance flashed.
“Metaphrax, assume command!” Eligor shouted. “I am going to return to Lord Sargatanas.”
Metaphrax, never losing concentration, nodded as Eligor’s superior glyph-of-command blended into his own. Eligor then picked two dozen demons to accompany him across the battlefield. Soaring fast and low away from his Guard, he plunged through the columns of smoke and ash that rose skyward from the line of battle, the clashing of arms below mixing with the ferocious bellowing of the combatants and filling the Captain of the Guard’s ears like a cantata of chaos.
For an instant he had seen, through the billowing ash, Lord Astaroth’s blue and shimmering Great Seal. Faraii’s troops, with orders to capture the enemy lord, had finally entered the fray, and Eligor, with his lord’s approval, had vowed that he would not miss that eventuality.
* * * * *
Eligor had never seen the Baron’s sword-work so eloquent, so deadly upon the battlefield. He had seen Faraii practice many times, even witnessed him in battle before, but this was something special. The Waste-wanderer’s black blade flitted from victim to victim fluidly, wielded by an artist of death with an eye trained like no other’s in Hell. And in contrast, behind him, his Shock Troopers’ axes hacked a wide avenue of destruction that left nothing but mounded stone and powder. The
y were as artless in their killing as Faraii was talented—his tutelage could never give them his elegance. Astaroth’s legionaries were chopped and tossed up above them as cleaved limbs and heads and torsos, only to bounce down upon their dark armor as rock to be crushed into black gravel beneath their heavy feet.
Did Astaroth know what fate was fast approaching? Eligor wondered. Surely he must. Or, seeing Sargatanas’ line bending, did Astaroth think he was winning the day? Anything was imaginable in the confusion of battle, especially when one was losing.
Eligor and his cohort of demons hung above Faraii, watching his progress as he carved his way toward Astaroth’s position upon a folded and veined rise. The Baron was always easy to find, the train of flames that licked out from his breastplate-vents lit all around him. From where he hovered, Eligor could actually see the tightening periphery, the noose of Sargatanas’ encircling army drawing tighter and leaving nothing alive outside of its confines. And, with grim fascination, Eligor watched Faraii’s demons stab deep into the body of the remaining enemy troops, plunging toward the heart that was Astaroth.
Eligor felt a hot wind gathering up from the south. Unimpeded upon the barren, now rock-strewn plain, it was gaining strength, and he saw in the distance that it brought with it heavy, dark clouds. He hoped that the battle would be over by the time they arrived; he would have to ground his flyers when the storm passed over.
The airborne demons passed through a broad, dense plume of smoke and were enshrouded in disorienting darkness. Command-glyphs sizzled past him, fiery arrows pointing his way out, and when Eligor burst into clear air it was only to realize just how close he was to the battle’s center.
The fighting had reached an intensity that he had rarely seen; Astaroth’s demons, true to their orders, were yielding only in death. Looking with admiration at Faraii, at the maelstrom he was within, Eligor excitedly realized that the battle’s end was nearly at hand. Hanging in the air no more than a hundred yards before him and his flyers was Astaroth’s blue-fire Seal, crackling with intensity, while, lit by its cool glow, the Baron and his demons were engaged with the Demon Major’s last defense, his implacable bodyguard. Dressed in their characteristic patterned and dyed skins, they fought to protect their lord with tiring sword arms, valiantly, grimly, and they fell where they stood, one after another, before the terrible onslaught.
Small pockets of demons fighting desperately in knee-high ash dotted the battlefield, but to all intents and purposes the battle was won; Sargatanas had easily carried the day.
A glyph sped into Faraii and Eligor read it; Sargatanas was on his way. Almost simultaneously the last of Astaroth’s bodyguards fell beneath Faraii’s sword and the Baron contemptuously lifted his iron-shod foot and crushed the upturned cleft face. The bodyguard crumpled inward, providing the Baron with yet another phalera to apply to his breast, she disdainfully shook the dust from his foot. And there stood the Great Lord Astaroth along with his sole remaining field marshal, Nebiros. The panting troopers, ax-hands hanging, surrounded them, creating a huge wall of dull, dark armor that contrasted with the pair’s tempered-topaz armor. Ash and grit were all that remained of Astaroth’s army, and it eddied around him in sere winds like a vortex of dark, disappointed ghosts.
He stood unbowed, head high, but to Eligor’s eyes the Great Lord looked hollow and tired. Ribbons of protective glyphs twined and wove about his body, and his face morphed continuously, uncontrollably. Only momentarily did Eligor see the old demon’s face as he remembered it, and it looked withered and gaunt. Astaroth looked at Nebiros and then down at the baton of command in his hands and, with the slightest shake of his head, knelt and proffered it to Faraii. Nebiros followed suit and remained kneeling, looking up at the Baron with undisguised resentment.
“A most remarkable performance, Baron Faraii,” Astaroth said, his voice dry and quiet. “You and your troops are a credit to your lord. Rarely have I seen such zeal. But then you are something of a legend in my wards… or what is left of them.”
“It is good to be highly regarded,” Faraii said with an air of confidence, snapping the two batons away from their owners.
“I did not say that, Baron. Rumors still abound since you departed my Wastes.”
Faraii’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
Astaroth took a deep breath and gathered himself. Eligor knew what would follow; he was familiar enough with the Ritual of Defeat. During Sargatanas’ campaigns he had witnessed it many times. “I must concede defeat,” Astaroth said, “and, as per the ancient Compact of Demons Major, I, Great Lord Astaroth, humbly ask you to bring me before your lord, the victorious Lord Sargatanas, that he may do with me as he will.”
Faraii, Eligor saw, was looking down, weighing the two batons in his hand. He turned and handed them to a hulking trooper. When Faraii returned his gaze to Astaroth it was with his black sword again in hand. With a lazy twist of his wrist he sliced Nebiros’ head from his shoulders. The breath caught in Eligor’s throat as he started forward. Giant Shock Troopers effectively blocked his and his flyers’ way. Eligor realized that even if he and his small cohort could take wing they could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. He could only bristle and watch impotently.
Patting the steaming Nebiros phalera in place upon himself, Faraii gazed for a moment at Astaroth. Faraii tilted his head like a stonemason regarding a block, envisioning it in its reduced form. He was an artist, after all.
“You have no intention of bringing me before Sargatanas, do you?”
Faraii paused. “No.”
“Are you no longer loyal to him?”
“His crusade is not mine.”
“Be careful, Baron. Remember what you see here at Maraak. When you are facing him across a battlefield.”
“Sound advice, indeed, from a broken, old demon. I will be doing Hell a favor by destroying you.”
Faraii backed up slowly, leaving Astaroth alone in the circle of Shock Troopers. Faraii caught Eligor’s eye, held it for an instant, and then turned away grinning. Whether it was upon a signal from the Baron or not Eligor never knew, but he saw the troopers set upon the kneeling demon with a fury. He closed his eyes. Their ferocious snarls and the sounds of the Great Lord’s demise lingered terribly in the air.
Eligor opened his eyes in time to see Astaroth’s Great Seal fade away. He saw that Faraii was nowhere to be seen and saw, too, his lord and Valefar arrive on foot, their gaze flashing over the scene.
“What is happening here?” Sargatanas said to Eligor over the din. “Where is Lord Astaroth?”
“He is no more, my lord. There was nothing I could do.”
Sargatanas’ eyes widened. “Who did this, Eligor? Who disobeyed me?”
Eligor’s insides twisted. The admiration, the loyalty, and the closeness he felt for Faraii were suddenly unclear. But his fealty to Sargatanas was not.
“My lord, Baron Faraii’s Shock Troopers committed the deed; the Baron did nothing to prevent it,” Eligor blurted, realizing his mistake immediately. “In his defense, however, he fought heroically; your goals could not have been achieved without him.”
“One of my goals, Captain, was Astaroth’s survival.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where is the Baron, now?” said Sargatanas, probing the outside ranks of troopers. They had regained their feet, forming a circle once again, and stared sullenly at him, avoiding his eyes.
Sargatanas strode forward, falcata in hand, pushing brusquely, angrily, into the troopers. He was no Astaroth, weakened and old, but instead was capable of wondrous acts of carnage—a fact not lost on the assembled warriors. Not accustomed to being swept so easily aside, they reacted with baleful, hissing intakes of breath and nothing more.
Sargatanas found Faraii at the circle’s center crouched, with Astaroth’s disk in hand.
“Baron, what has happened here? Why have you disobeyed me?” The ominous rumble was unmistakable.
“My lord,” Faraii said, rising, “it was not I but my troops
. They destroyed him.” He paused, shaking his head. “You did not see him… in the miserable condition he was in. My troops, in their overzealousness, did him… and you as well… a service by ending his life.”
“You decided this? On your own?” Sargatanas’ faceplates shifted, and even from where Eligor stood, he could see that the new configurations were threatening. Flames atop the demon’s head blossomed wildly.
“I neglected to give my demons explicit orders regarding his disposition; that is my fault.” Faraii’s free hand nervously played with the hilt of his sword. “But as I said, my lord, he was a broken figure… pathetic. He would have asked for that end… a noble end… if he had been thinking clearly. But clearly the battle’s outcome affected his—”
“So you did the thinking for him… and me as well.”
“His demise saved everyone much trouble.”
“Not yourself, however. You will return immediately to Adamantinarx, where you will consider yourself confined to your chambers. Only your exemplary past service to me is keeping you alive, Faraii.” He reached out and plucked the disk from Faraii’s hand.
The Baron dropped to one knee, saluted, and rose. Without a backward glance he walked stiffly through his troopers, who, in turn, filed away with him.
“Valefar,” Sargatanas said, “you and Eligor are done here. Send the legions on to Askad. I must remain and go in and secure Astaroth’s wards. Or what is left of them.”
Valefar nodded and sent out the command.
Sargatanas regarded the Astaroth disk, holding it tightly, and sighed. And then, with reverential solemnity, he put the disk to his breast, where, with a bluish glow, it fused.
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