“I understand, my lord,” said Eligor grimly.
“I am finished here,” Sargatanas said peremptorily to Yen Wang’s guides. “Ask your lord to prepare the Behemoths for combat, as well. I may find it necessary to deploy them.” Turning back to Eligor, he said, “I am returning to the palace immediately. If you need me I will be in the Conjuring Hall. There is an invocation that I must perfect.”
“My lord.” Eligor nodded and when he stepped out upon the street it was with a sense of urgency that he ascended to find Valefar.
The Prime Minister stood hunched over a table, his angular body backlit and red limned against the wide windows of his study. Before him lay an open coffer that had disgorged two dozen odd objects—found bits and pieces both natural and soul made—flotsam from the Wastes that the demon had collected on his last foray. Eligor knew that Valefar had a creative bent, that many of the assemblages that adorned his walls and those of his fellow demons were the product of days of consideration and labor. The pieces were deceptive in their simplicity, intentionally imperfect, even, some chided, deliberately obscure in their meaning. Eligor’s chambers, like many palace dwellers’, bore its own Valefar-crafted creation, which the Captain proudly showed to his visitors. It was a dark frieze composed of translucent layers of Abyssal scales and spiny plates, some of which still glowed or shone silver-black, and though Eligor readily admitted he did not understand its meaning, he did find it in some way evocative.
He crossed the chamber, noting the ever-present, ever-shifting drifts of documents, and waited patiently behind Valefar, not eager to break the demon’s stream of thought. The low pulsing of the heart-clock, more felt than heard from the next room, measured the slow minutes.
“What is it, Eligor, that has your wings twitching even while you stand there?” he said finally without taking his eyes off the carefully arrayed items.
“It is war, my lord,” said the demon, frowning at just how easily he was read.
Valefar shifted a bent splinter of Abyssal bone until it juxtaposed with a rippled piece of dry skin. The demon then fused them together with a word and stood back.
“Is it what Sargatanas wants?”
“So it would seem.”
Valefar appeared to weigh the answer. Eligor saw him tilt his smoke-shrouded head, still apparently evaluating his work, and then with a curt nod to himself he swept aside the fragments, pushing them to the far edge of the table and clearing the surface. He turned and, without meeting Eligor’s eyes, stood for a short period slowly taking in his surroundings, his smoky-silver eyes focusing on nothing in particular. He frowned and then proceeded to make his way through the organized jumble of vellums until he stood before a tall, open cabinet containing innumerable rolled manuscripts. Taking them down carefully in twos and threes, he began to empty the shelves until the bare wall was revealed behind. Once Valefar was finished, Eligor saw a nearly imperceptible line tracing a narrow, vertical rectangle almost his own height upon the age-dusted wall.
Valefar removed the shelves and, springing an unseen latch, opened the once-hidden door. More dust billowed forth, and Valefar pulled back, waiting until it had settled. When it had he reached into the dark compartment with both hands and withdrew a long, metal box that Eligor had seen only once, when Valefar had first appeared, so long ago, upon the crag that was to become the palace’s home.
Solemnly, the Prime Minister carried the box to the cleared table, placing it, with apparent reverence, in the center. With head bowed, he whispered something that Eligor could not hear, and with a hiss and the angelic word gemeganza issuing from within, the box sprang open. Eligor’s eyes grew wide as they lit upon an ialpor napta—one of the flaming swords of the War. But all had been lost in the Fall! he thought. Yet one is here, in Hell! He could not take his disbelieving eyes from the blade.
It lay, lightly, in its cushioned box, a thing so thin that it seemed little more than a memory of a sword. Shaped like a long, slim primary feather, it hardly seemed substantial enough to cut vellum. But he knew what the angry seraphim could do with such a blade; he shuddered when he remembered how many angels on both sides had fallen under such weapons.
Valefar slowly picked the sword off its gossamer-gold bed and held it aloft. A single ominous point of fire traveled from the hilt to the tip.
“Let me tell you a small story, Eligor,” said Valefar, studying the blade. “It took place long ago, on another eve of war. But I can remember it as if it was two days ago. I sat upon a hill near the Tree basking in the Light and enjoying the rainbow-purple chalkadri as they swooped and played in the burnished azure sky, their calls echoing like glass pipes. The air was cloudless and crisp and smelled like… well, you remember. How I miss that air.” Valefar paused, dropping the point of the sword only a little as his memory flew backward.
“Sargatanas came to me that brilliant afternoon, as I sat, and before he spoke I could feel the anger that seethed beneath the surface in him. It had been Lucifer’s anger, but now it was his as well. I shared it, too, Eligor, as did you, but not with the fervor he did. Sargatanas’ resentment was palpable. He stood next to me, just as you do now, and told me what had been said in the last meeting with Lucifer. And I felt myself growing sadder with each word. Not angry, not then, but unhappy knowing that nothing would be the same again once the War began. With his hand trembling upon his sword’s hilt… for he wore it always at that point… he repeated Lucifer’s unfortunate rhetoric. I asked him then, as I just asked you, if war was what he wanted. Just at that moment, just as he vehemently said, ‘Yes!,’ a young chalkad flew down, landed upon the ground, and paused, cocking its head as if listening to us. Sargatanas, blinded by his rage and frustration, drew his sword and, in a move as swift as a dark thought, cleaved the creature’s serpent-body in two. Perhaps he feared the Throne was listening to him through the innocent creature; I do not know. But upon seeing what he had done to one of the Throne’s own he knelt down, tears streaming from his eyes, and gave me his sword. This sword.”
Valefar turned the great blade in a quick shadow-parry. Heat waves from a sudden burst of blue flames caused the air around it to shimmer. “He told me that he did not want it, any more than he wanted war. But, he said, the anger had taken root and would never go away, and that war was inevitable. I took the sword from him and because he was my great friend followed him into war and, not wishing to waste such an important weapon, I wielded it in the Great Battle. Of course he had another ialpor napta, but like all the other Fallen save myself, he lost that one eventually in the Fall.”
“Why did you get to keep it?” asked Eligor with genuine curiosity.
“I do not know. It lay there next to me in the crater when I awoke. At the time I thought nothing of it; I imagined that all demons had retained their weapons.”
“It is odd.”
“Yes, odd.” Valefar spun around cleaving the sizzling air with a practiced flourish, grinned fiercely, and then, quickly placing the sword back in its box, closed the lid and sealed it with a word. “And so we have another great war at hand, Captain, a war unlike the incessant wars we have been fighting since we were sent here. Again, Sargatanas chooses to go to war, but this time, I believe, for the right reason.”
Eligor looked at Valefar and knew, more then than ever, that Sargatanas had chosen his most trusted friend well.
“As do I,” Eligor said. Both demons turned toward the door.
Valefar paused. “We will need him, Eligor.”
“Who?”
“The Baron. As potentially dangerous as his troops are to us, we are going to have to put our trust in them and use them. And keep a very watchful eye on their fractious leader. If we keep the Baron and them in line, they will do grievous work upon the armies of the Fly.”
“I understand. I will go to him now and see how his newfound solitude has affected his disposition.”
Valefar began to create a series of command-glyphs in midair and then enfolded them into a hovering pyramid of
light, which he sent off to Faraii. “Are you prepared for what will come?”
“Yes, Prime Minister. And yourself?”
“For Abaddon’s Pit, if that is how it ends,” he said with a half grin.
Valefar then turned away and Eligor opened the door. Something made him look back at the demon, who was again standing before the window, back to him, his steaming hands upon the long box. His head was bowed, his jaw seemed to be moving, and for a moment Eligor thought he might be silently praying. It was such an improbable notion that, as Eligor pulled the door quietly behind him, he shook his head slightly and then, as he started toward Faraii’s quarters, began to focus on the difficult conversation that undoubtedly lay ahead.
When he arrived outside Faraii’s chambers Eligor knocked upon the door, and when he heard no response he pressed his ear against its cold surface. He heard a faint rasping from within and, puzzled, pulled the knob-latch on the door. With some difficulty he pushed his way into the darkened room, smelling the tang of blood, stumbling over some unseen obstacles on the floor, and then, reflexively, invoking a glyph-of-illumination to better see his surroundings. The room and its objects were as he remembered them from his last visit, but only when he entered farther did he see the damage wrought. Every bit of furnishing, every square foot of floor and wall, was hacked and sliced as by a very sharp blade until the flesh of the bricks hung in long, bloody tatters, the floor was uneven, and the sparse furniture teetered on sword-chiseled, bony legs. And punctuating his examination was the ever-present rasping of what sounded like metal upon stone.
Eligor’s eyes narrowed as he put his hand upon his sword hilt and walked slowly in the direction of the continuous sound. There is madness here. But when he actually set eyes upon the Baron, seated upon an untouched chair, Eligor was no longer certain. Faraii appeared composed, even serene, and were it not for the conditions of the surroundings and the whetting of his black sword, performed with ominous deliberateness, Eligor would have thought nothing amiss.
“Faraii, are you…?”
“I am fine… Eligor.”
“These chambers are not fine.”
Faraii shrugged. “I was angry.”
Eligor’s hand stayed upon his sword hilt.
“And are you still?”
“Of course I am. I was sealed in my quarters for doing my job too efficiently. I think that would bother you as well.”
Eligor saw the other demon’s eyelid flutter.
“But,” continued Faraii, “does that mean that I am unable to perform my sworn duty to Sargatanas?” The words hung for a moment, accompanied by the measured sound of the sword.
“Will you stop that while we talk?”
The whetting stopped.
“I just received word of the coming war along with my orders,” the Baron said matter-of-factly. “My incarceration, it would seem, has ended as of your arrival. Imagine that, Eligor; my lord suddenly has need of my services and I am free.”
“He does. We all do.”
“So, am I to be released simply to fight? Only to be put back in my cage afterward?”
“No, Faraii, that is not Sargatanas’ intent. He is offering you a chance not only to regain your former status but also to win his trust back, a second chance,” Eligor said with an edge to his voice, “and I am reasonably certain there will not be a third.”
“There will not need to be.” The Baron stood suddenly, as if a string had pulled him up from his chair. He sheathed the sword with an abrupt and perfect flick of his hand. His eyes gleamed with fervor. “I will serve my lord, Eligor. I have truly grown, both wiser and stronger, as a result of my punishment.”
In the half-light of the glyph Eligor saw, again, the nervous eyelid-flutter.
“Of that I have no doubt, Faraii,” said Eligor, but his suspicions and doubts were many and strong. Something ineffable about the Waste-wanderer had clearly changed. But, Eligor could not help wondering, why has he changed? Why has he gone from that outsider I found so admirable, quiet and self-assured, to this blatantly arrogant, defiant demon? What is eating at him? Even though Eligor knew that Sargatanas needed his leadership in battle, he personally would keep a watchful eye on the demon. Faraii’s ferocity was not something he wanted turned toward Sargatanas.
“All this,” Eligor said, indicating the ravaged rooms as he walked to the door, “will have to be addressed. For the moment, I will keep it between us and have it taken care of.”
Faraii stood amidst the chaos, arms folded and looking at his feet, his only thanks a curt grunt.
* * * * *
Troubled, Eligor ascended into the skies above Adamantinarx. He peered down, taking in the absolute dark magnificence of it, its broad avenues and great domes, its thousands of fire-lit buildings teeming with demons and souls, its many-colored, blazing glyphs, its frozen army of monumental statues, and wondered how it would be changed by the events that were to unfold in a war with the greatest forces of Hell. And then his gaze fell upon the slow-flowing Acheron, the River of Tears, and the unwelcome thought entered his mind that it was perhaps, after all, an unfortunate landmark, an uncomfortable omen for a city whose future was now, at best, ill defined.
Chapter Twenty-One
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
It was a dream that had begun when he regained himself, a dream that echoed his life before Hell. He knew that he was dreaming, but it did not help; his legs and arms, so heavy bearing the light, squirming burden, moved as if they were made of bronze. But when he looked down into the infant’s eyes so bright, something he always did to find succor in the innocence he saw there, his heart raced and the hatred he felt swelled. Not for her. Never. But for him up there. And his gaze, as cold as the blue heavens themselves, reached skyward. How can I do this thing? It goes against everything: humanity, fatherhood… nature. They, the hated people of Roma, do not even do this. The privations those people had imposed on his city after the war, that was why he was here today. That and the merciless summer.
The acrid smell of smoke wafted into his nose, and hatred filled his mouth.
His daughter made that gurgling, cooing noise he loved so much, and he faltered and thought of breaking and running but could not. His feet kept moving and the rows of people on either side, somber and quiet, nodded as he passed them. As he drew near the smoldering Tophet, the warring emotions of hate and love, so powerful in their strength and opposition, twisted something primal deep inside him and he knew, someday, many would suffer because he did this on this day. Now, today, he, a noble Barca, would set the example and they, like the stupid, believing sheep that they were, would follow with their own firstborns.
The cooing had stopped, and after a brief silence it was replaced by her crying, softly at first and then louder.
Shreds of smoke stung his eyes, and the tears it created mingled with those that had formed as he walked. Around him the air began to waver with the intense heat. This is Hell.
He stepped to the edge of the burning pit, taking in the pointed pillars, the mounds of ash, the tiny charred and broken bones and heat-split urns, and the sudden din of drums and sistrums made him flinch imperceptibly. He had to forcibly will his arms to extend, the crying, flailing bundle now, oddly, unheard against the riot of sound. He was a powerful man and she was light and when, upon a signal from the priest, he threw her she went farther than he expected. And as he did, through his uncontrollable tears and the overwhelming hatred, he cursed the god who had given his people this ritual of death, who had convinced them that only the most precious of all gifts would expiate their sins. As the clammy fingers of the dream released him he was still cursing the hungry god named Moloch.
* * * * *
With half-closed, tingling eyes he smelled the salt of the Acheron caught on the wind, mixed with the brimstone-scent of the city’s far-off fires. Wrapped in an Abyssal-skin cloak, Hannibal, Soul-General of the Souls’ Army of Hell, lay alongside his new army and thought, not for the first time, of Imilce.
It was the usual pattern—first the dream about their daughter and then Imilce. In his half-slumbering mind’s eye he saw her strong, beautiful face as it had looked perhaps thousands of years earlier, and he hoped that she was not somewhere in Hell. Not her, not in this place, he thought. But he could never be sure; she had been born of warriors after all.
The sound of distant horns from the city caused him to open his eyes. He stood, pulling the ash-covered hood down, adjusting the darkly iridescent cloak about himself, and smiled faintly. It was almost funny, he thought, how the demons had not understood, at first, why he would not, himself, have a soul-skin cloak or allow anyone in his army to wear one. They had laughed in his face, uncomprehending, but when he had remained firm they had simply shrugged and given the souls the scaled cloaks. Imilce would have liked his steadfastness; it was so like her own. But the cloak he wore now, tough and protective, could hardly have been better than the tear-dampened one she had given him before he left her life forever.
Looking toward Adamantinarx, Hannibal watched its domes and towers growing indistinct, vanishing altogether save for their fires, and reappearing with the passing waves of clouds that surrounded it. Tiny, distant sparks that he knew to be flying demons rose and fell between the buildings, some gathering into cubelike formations, some into flying pyramids. It was odd, he reflected, that he could regard such a place as home and yet his brief years in Qart Hadasht were as nothing compared to his stay in Sargatanas’ city. Hannibal saw the approaching herald, his head aflame, long before he heard his slow wing beats. Dropping down to stand before the Soul-General, he tucked his long horn under one arm and bowed his fiery head.
God's Demon Page 22
