The moment Sargatanas was ankle deep in the Acheron he cried out, and the sound was like a hammer to Lilith’s heart. Heard above the sounds of river and city alike, it was prolonged and raw and anguished, a disharmonic cry as from the torn throats of a lost multitude. Why was he doing this? What could this possibly answer for him?
She watched as he moved slowly, painfully, out into the water, which had begun to steam and bubble violently around him. From her distance she could just see that his body was changing, at first slowly and then with gathering rapidity. His wings grew broad and full, spreading into wide petal-shapes, finned membranes, or abstract forms held together with traceries of glyphs. His trunk and legs and arms grew luminous, expanding and contracting with an array of plates, fins, spines, and horns, some of which reached for yards around him. And all the while his head blazed like the brightest of torches, with only the shadowy suggestions visible of the changes that were taking place.
Lilith moved toward the gate. Part of her wanted to go to him, to drag him from the Acheron and its pain. She realized that this must be some ritual, some form of penance, perhaps; it was the only explanation. She placed her hand atop the unlatched, pitted gate, which whined noisily, immediately causing her to shrink down. Valefar had turned his head quickly, looking back and up toward the freely swinging gate. Did he sense her? She was hopeful that the sound’s origin would seem obvious and sure that he had not seen her, but that did not keep her heart from fluttering.
She was, she knew, in serious jeopardy of being caught, and she had no idea what her punishment might be, if any, for witnessing this rite. Carefully, soundlessly, she backed away from the gate and the river’s edge, reluctant to leave yet fearful to stay, and retreated into the fog and anonymity of the Rule.
Hours later, after the steady climb back up the central mount, she arrived, tired and unfulfilled, at the building that housed her chambers. What had she seen? She now had more questions than answers about Sargatanas. For the moment there was no one who could answer them. But she was confident that would change in time.
Pulling off her skins and letting them lie where they fell, Lilith climbed onto her pallet. The orange glow of sky-fire had re-ignited above central Adamantinarx, blossoming into a firestorm that pelted the window with tiny, tapping embers. Sweepers were already out in the courtyard below, their brooms whisking paths through the ash. The repetitive sounds lulled her tired mind, blurring the line between reality and dream. Had she really gone down to the river’s edge or had she only been lying in bed? The last image that floated through her enervated mind was of Sargatanas, his glowing body changing, changing.
Chapter Eighteen
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Eligor watched the long, curving ramp from the main doorway of the palace. From this distance he could see that most of the traffic was heading toward him and the flow of demons continued unabated as it passed him and continued into the palace. The victory on the border was drawing the disaffected from the four corners of Hell, and they had been gathering for weeks. But it was still a small number considering the numbers of the Fallen. They are coming to him, now that he has returned from a great victory. But, for now, most remain guarded and are only sending their emissaries. It will take more than one success on the battlefield before they come themselves, Eligor thought. Will they leave just as eagerly if he suffers a defeat?
Palanquins and beasts, caparisoned in heavy, ornamented blankets and elaborate trappings, all stopped at the foot of the palace stairs, where each ambassador dismounted, each having finally received some form of invitation. Escorted by Zoray’s handpicked guards and accompanied by flabella-bearers and stooped lower demons bearing gifts, they climbed the many stairs and entered the palace, where they were met by Sargatanas’ trusted aides, his corps of junior ministers. Passing him with nods, Eligor noted that many were frequently seen faces and these were greeted with solemn familiarity while others, the newcomers, were met with all the official ceremony of court.
After a while, he grew restless and left his own Honor Guard at the door and headed in among the ambassadors. They were as dissimilar a collection of demons as he had ever seen. Most were Demons Minor with enough of the fallen angel about them as to be unremarkable. But others had adopted the conventions of their lands or their lords, bearing bizarre forms and countenances that he sometimes felt were borne solely for effect. Great coronets of horn or torso spines corkscrewed into baroque patterns, or eye-dotted flesh, trimmed and draped like layered scales, adorned them, as did prideful and intricate reticulations of embers that sizzled as he passed. He saw some from the Lowlands who, used to the colder temperatures, were wrapped in thick layers of soul-skins and others from the craggy Uplands who favored multiple winglets and featherlight membranes. Those demons whose wards incorporated the Wastes saw fit to integrate some of the fierce, visual decorations of the Salamandrine Men, combining spiky webs of incomprehensible, glowing marks with piercings of bones from Abyssals and sigils that hovered, slithering like worms, inches from their bodies. Eligor heard their many dialects and understood most; his talent for tongues was something for which Sargatanas valued him, he knew, but now it simply made his head hurt.
Feeling crowded in by the noisy, milling mass of demons, he made his way to Valefar’s side. The Prime Minister was deep in quiet conversation with Lord Furcas, one of the few regents who had journeyed, himself, to Adamantinarx. He was a stocky Demon Major, very plain in his appearance, with only a few modest hornlets and a round face bearing seven cobalt eyes of differing sizes. He made animated gestures with his hands as he spoke, gestures that reminded Eligor of the arcing flight of the Waste dart. It seemed, to Eligor, who could not hear what was being said, an almost ridiculous pantomime, but Valefar watched intently as Furcas finished his conversation. Eligor bowed to them and turned away to speak with his entourage. Distant trumpets sounded a signal causing heads to turn, and both demons fell into the current of the crowd as it began to move toward the arcades and the Audience Chamber beyond. Respecting Valefar’s silence, Eligor did not speak; the Prime Minister was clearly deep in thought.
And he remained so as the demons assembled in the immense chamber. Eligor took his position at the base of the giant pyramidal dais and looked out at the fervent expressions of the hundreds of ambassadors who had journeyed across Hell to proffer allegiance to his lord. Most had never been to Adamantinarx and seen for themselves the fabled domed palace; they would surely bring impressive tales back to their lords. High above the ambassadors’ heads, above their own multicolored sigils, floated Sargatanas’ Great Seal, larger than Eligor had ever seen it and casting a livid light upon them.
Eligor glanced around and up at Sargatanas, whose form, now alight with fire, flickered with intensity. He had not seen Sargatanas in a week and smiled inwardly; his lord was a fiery creature of destiny now, a force that could not be stopped by anything short of his complete destruction. He stepped to the edge of the dais and spoke in the old language, the forbidden language. Its mellifluous tones echoed throughout the chamber, causing a stir among the gathered demons.
“What is it that keeps us here? Is it our love of this place and its hospitable clime? Is it because our cities are luminous and golden and the air within them fragrant and cool? Or is it our love of its benign and forgiving ruler and its fair and just governance? Are we here because we are all truly evil or were some of us misled and misdirected, carried away on the scalding winds of rhetoric? Are we not still creatures beholden to the Throne, no matter how far we have strayed from it?” Sargatanas paused. “Or is it, perhaps, our damaged pride that keeps us filled with shame and bound to this place? Are we truly condemned to stay here, resigned to our fate, never to see the Above again? Should we never attempt to go back?
“So many questions. But Lords, Ambassadors, you would not be standing here before me if the answers were not clear. You would never have made the difficult journey to Adamantinarx had you not seen the truth. It is time
for sorrow to become hope and hope to become action. It is time for you to reach up out of the charred flesh and the smoldering cinders to join me.”
Eligor saw the nearly immediate effect the words had on those assembled. He heard the growing murmur of assent and saw the rippling, outward-spreading wave of demons as they began to kneel. Above their heads their many glittering sigils began to disarticulate, sending attenuated tendrils of glyphs up toward Sargatanas’ Great Seal. There they embraced, intertwining like luminous tentacles until they rearranged themselves into a cohesive whole. The enormous, flat seal was now surrounded by an incomplete globe of delicate symbols, and Eligor realized that his master, ever looking to the future, was waiting to fill in the spaces with more allies’ sigils. Eligor looked back at the crowd, from bowed head to bowed head, and wondered if each of them bore the same thought: Will I walk, once again, through the cities of the Above? Will I look again upon the Throne? He suddenly remembered a moment long, long ago when another charismatic figure had stood before him and a similar, disaffected crowd and entreated them to join him and take up arms. Would this rebellion share the same outcome? Was Faraii, for all his bitterness, right? Of one thing Eligor was certain: Sargatanas was correct; there were many questions.
The greeting of each ambassador or rare lord took many long hours, with Sargatanas, seated upon his throne, patiently according each his due respect. Andromalius and Bifrons, already staunch allies, joined Eligor and a contingent of his Guard behind the throne while Valefar stood at his lord’s side, amiably making introductions, identifying each demon’s native land and highlighting the outstanding qualities of each. Eligor was, to start, watchful and interested but found his concentration flagging after the first hundred or so demons had passed; then only the most important of the new clients received his full attention.
“Lord Malpas has, for these long eons, studied the art of siegecraft, my lord,” Valefar said, intruding on Eligor’s thoughts. “He was instrumental in aiding Architect General Mulciber when many of the palaces were first built—including Prince Beelzebub and Lucifer’s empty fortress. He knows their strongpoints and their fundamental weaknesses. Of course much has been added to them since then… but still.”
“Malpas, thanks to you for joining me,” Sargatanas said. “Your knowledge and your forty legions will, I am sure, prove invaluable.”
Malpas bowed so low that his long, thick beak scraped the floor audibly.
An hour later Eligor saw an especially ornate Demon Major stand before them, his floor-length robes alive with dozens of souls flattened and picked for their unflawed pelts, each dyed, delicately stitched together, and highlighted with golden thread and embellished with rolling, precious stone eyes. In all, Eligor thought, a masterpiece of foreign craftsmanship.
Valefar, too, seemed taken with the figure, smiling and nodding openly.
“This, my lord, is the honored Lord Yen Wang of the distant Eastern Wards, who brings with him the swift and powerful Legions of Behemoths. Even as we speak, the terrible creatures are being stabled in some of the abandoned storehouses along the far shore of the Acheron. Well, I might add, away from the city.”
Sargatanas’ eyebrows rose. “I have heard much about you and your legendary Behemoths, Yen Wang, but have never set eyes upon them myself. I would like very much to visit my new stables with you at my side. I am sure there is much for me to learn about them. Thanks to you for bringing them so far.”
Yen Wang’s scarred face creased in an earnest attempt at a smile. “My pleasure, Lord,” he said in an oddly accented voice. “I am most proud of them and would be only too honored to offer my insights. As well as,” he added with a bow, “my generalship.”
“I would have them both willingly,” said Sargatanas with a nod.
Eventually, Eligor saw the crowd growing thinner. Dwindling like the fading light from the oculus, those demons who had passed before his lord descended and exited the chamber. What had started as a flood of dignitaries became a trickle until only a mere handful awaited introduction. Off to either side of the throne a moundlike, glittering collection of gifts lay arrayed, some items that Eligor recognized when he had seen their bearers arriving. Life-size gold statues of demon generals from ages past stood next to giant urns filled with the precious stones found in distant mountain mines. Beautifully crafted spears and axes fashioned from brilliant minerals and metals by local Waste artisans lay piled in neat arrangements atop fine rugs, tapestries, and carefully worked Abyssal pelts. In all, it was a fabulous tribute, but Eligor knew that, apart from its symbolic nature, it was of little value to Sargatanas.
Lord Furcas was the last to approach the throne, and far from being unhappy at his position in the queue, he seemed expansive and even eager. As he stopped before Sargatanas, Valefar, who seemed tired of court pretenses, relaxed and stepped forward to clasp hands with the portly Demon Major.
“My lord,” the Prime Minister said, “Lord Furcas of the high montane wards of Faragito Coraxo has amiably agreed to wait to be presented last, because he has brought us a most unique contribution that requires some demonstration. I had a chance to discuss this but briefly with his lordship, and he and I feel certain that you will be intrigued by his discoveries. Among his other qualities Lord Furcas is a Pyromancer Exalted. Lord Furcas.”
Furcas knelt heavily, bowed his head, and rose upon a signal from Sargatanas.
“Ages ago, my lords, I spent much time wandering the Salbrox Mountains of my home-wards. To most, I am sure, it seemed that my solitary journeys were no more than the meanderings of an eccentric demon.” Furcas paused as his silver eyes looked inward at the memories of his travels. “But I was actually prospecting, searching out the resources that I needed to make my armies strong—stronger than my neighbors’. For millennia I found nothing but the most common minerals, and because of that I suffered the kinds of defeats that gradually diminished my realm. And then one day I was sitting by a seething mountain cleft and looked down to see a small Abyssal carrying a crystal that flickered like solid fire in its armored mouth. I followed it and found an entire nest made of the rocks. I wrested one away from the creature but dropped it immediately—its heat was so tremendous. So I caught and skinned the Abyssal and carried the mineral home in its scaly skin. After many years I unlocked its stubborn secret, extracted its essential energy, and with the addition of a few crafted glyphs I learned to control and shape the mineral. It is solid fire, my lord.”
Furcas raised his clawed hands, holding them apart and at Sargatanas’ eye level. A tiny mote of the glowing mineral danced upon Furcas’ palm. With a glance toward Valefar he murmured a few words, and almost immediately an orange, artery-thin line began to glow between his bony palms. Thin, hairlike geysers of fire sprang forth from within the demon until his entire dark body was alight with a shimmering corona of thin fire. He then spread his hands farther apart and the straight, thickening line grew until it was twice his arm’s length. A tapered, pyramidal tip appeared at one end, sharp as a fang and white-hot. He grasped the newly formed javelin in a glove of glyphs, tightly conjured to negate the insufferable heat.
“I need a target for my malpirg,” said Furcas plainly, holding up the fiery javelin.
“Eligor, have your Guard place one of those upon the floor below,” Sargatanas said, indicating one of the golden statuary generals he had been given. “I am sure old Field Marshal Kethias would be flattered to be used in this way.”
Moments later three flying demons were, on the instructions of Furcas, positioning the life-size statue far out on the polished floor—farther, Eligor thought, than was reasonable. He looked dubiously at the portly demon who watched, confidently hefting the incandescent shaft.
Sargatanas stood and moved to Furcas’ side. The short Pyromancer took a moment to gauge his throw, and with a graceful gesture that belied his bulk he pulled his arm back and cast the malpirg far up and out into the air of the dome. At the top of its arc he uttered a word and the malpirg split in
two, each gaining momentum as they fell until they appeared as long glowing lines. Both hit the statue squarely in the chest, erupting in a spectacular, smoky shower of molten gold.
“This I have taught my troops,” said Furcas. “I have ten legions of malpirgim ready to serve you.”
A great drifting cloud of smoke retreated and Eligor saw his master’s faint smile as he viewed the shattered and bubbling statue.
“Excellent, Furcas, excellent,” Sargatanas said quietly. “You bring me a great gift and in return you shall ride by my side in the next engagement, commanding those same ten legions.”
“Thank you, my lord.” With that Furcas bowed deeply, his pleasure obvious.
“Lord, someone is moving out there in the smoke,” said Eligor abruptly. His keen eyes had picked up a pale shape moving toward them. Immediately the Flying Guard rose, as one, into the air, their lances poised and ready.
“No one was left to be announced, my lord. The chamber should be empty,” Valefar said quietly.
The Guard closed rapidly upon the approaching figure.
“Stay their hands, Eligor! No matter who this is, I am reasonably sure we can handle him,” said Sargatanas drily.
The figure seemed to grow from the white smoke itself, becoming more solid and distinct as the clouds dissipated. Clad in pale skins, hood drawn up, it looked like little more than a common traveler.
“So this is my reward for my patience!” the figure said, its husky voice carrying easily. Eligor could not be sure, but he thought he recognized her accent, for surely it was a female beneath the swaths of Abyssal skin. Just as she climbed the last few steps of the pyramid and dropped her hood he remembered. Shaking out her thick, white hair, Lilith looked up at them and smiled. She dropped the skins in a twitching pile at her splayed feet. “I thought I would melt away wearing these for so long indoors.”
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