God's Demon

by Wayne Barlowe

  “The Great Lord Sargatanas bids you and your army greeting. Lord Sargatanas wishes you to assemble just before the Fifth Gate, where he and his staff will meet you. He issues to you this baton as an official symbol of your commission in his Great Army of the Ascension.”

  The herald proffered a military baton, heavy and sculpted with a horizontal crescent and a disk, symbols of Hannibal’s long-past empire. Thin, shivering snakes of lightning played upon its upper surfaces. This was a significant gesture that spoke of acknowledgment and even respect, and it filled Hannibal with emotion.

  Taking his cue from the herald, Hannibal signaled to one of the demon cornicens that had been attached to his army, and soon the air for some distance was filled with the hollow braying of war horns.

  By the time he made his way to the front ranks of the soul army, the whisper of the rumor of war that had begun upon the arrival of the herald had grown into an excited murmur.

  Eagerly the souls took up their arms and quickly formed ranks and files. Hannibal turned to his brother and together they gave the order to march. An hour later the well-ordered formation surged around the last corner of the ten-span-high city walls to the not-too-distant gate where, already emerging, Hannibal saw the demon general staff. He looked at the distant gate and remembered the spikes that adorned it. They call it the Fifth Gate, but we have always called it something very different… Gate of a Million Hearts. He shook his head with the memory of its hooked decorations and with the irony of it.

  Marching in a tight wedge with Sargatanas at its point, the generals were the crest of a black wave of soldiers, fifteen columns of resplendent standard-bearers followed closely by heavily armored legionaries. Above them flew two full squadrons of Eligor’s Guard trailing long gonfalons from their lances, each emblazoned with their lord’s fiery seal. The splendor of the scene, the sheer visual weight of it, crushed Hannibal, who stood transfixed, trying as best as he could not to show his awe.

  He had never been this close to Demons Major in all of their battle panoply and realized, then and there, that he would never get used to the impossible inhumanity of them. As they drew closer, their giant, anthropomorphic forms seemed to create an organic wall that loomed fiery and dark and wreathed in smoke. Fortunately, the debilitating influence of their proximity that he so vividly recalled when he had nearly been converted no longer seemed to influence him; he had concluded that they could exert that effect if they chose. Their thick armor, pitted and hot, was annealed into their bodies, embedded for war and impossible to remove except by uttered invocation or prying blade. Between the plates were areas of umber flesh that writhed and clawed and snapped with innumerable fanged mouths and taloned fingers and bloodshot eyes. No two demons were alike, and yet there were similarities enough to suggest their kinship. No matter the form their casquelike head-armor took, the demons’ eyes all shone silver upon black, all with equal intensity, and Hannibal found that looking into those eyes served as a touchstone, a grounding for him to avoid what must be happening upon the surface of their restless bodies.

  All of the principal Demons Major and Minor were there at Sargatanas’ side: there were Andromalius and Bifrons and Minister Valefar carrying a ten-foot-long sword that Hannibal had never seen the like of, and there was Zoray, his shield emblazoned with the glowing symbol of the Foot Guard, and the gaunt and ferocious Baron Faraii, whose spare manner and differing armor bore the stamp of the Wastes, and a heavily robed demon who could only be Yen Wang strode a pace behind with fireballs circling his head and fabulous glyphs orbiting his body. Other demons, too, followed behind, some of whom Hannibal had not yet met but seemed to him to be of very high stature. Eligor, who Hannibal had heard from rumors was somehow more accessible than the rest, flew overhead at the front of his troops and dropped down to the ground as the demon lord and his retinue drew close.

  Hannibal had been warned that his souls, now mobilized as an army, were not to be permitted within the walls of Adamantinarx, and so he dutifully drew them up some distance from the towering gate. There they re-formed into parade squares facing the legions of demons that poured out of the city and the Soul-General had to applaud their discipline for not breaking and running at the sight of it.

  Sargatanas stepped up to Hannibal and looked up and down the front ranks of soldiers, nodding approvingly.

  “So what I have heard is true, Hannibal,” he said. “It appears that you have done a fine job of assembling and organizing your army. Their numbers are far greater than I would have expected. Many said it could not be done.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” Hannibal said, bowing his head. He was proud of his ability to levy such an enormous host.

  “It is time now, perhaps prematurely, to test them against an enemy who is both strong and bold. But I have been giving their usefulness some thought, and this I will discuss with you as we march.”

  “March, my lord?”

  Looking up at the demon’s shifting countenance, at his spark-nimbused head, Hannibal could feel the radiating contagious mixture of determination and excitement. “At this moment the formidable Grand General Moloch, the Imperial Mayor of Dis, is himself headed toward us with a handpicked host whose sole purpose is the destruction of me, my court, and Adamantinarx. I will not meet him here in the shadow of my city so that he may divert our efforts with his siegecraft. It is my hope to pick where and when we will meet him.”

  Hannibal’s chin dropped suddenly.

  “My lord…,” he said with eyes closed, a quaver in his voice, “the general’s name? What did you say his name was?”

  “It is Moloch.”

  The Soul-General remained still and Sargatanas looked intently at him, reading him.

  “The same, Hannibal,” Sargatanas said softly. “This battle will be important for both of us.”

  For a moment the demon and the soul stood facing each other, the unspoken emotions passing between them.

  “We will prevail, Hannibal,” Sargatanas said. “Everything must change eventually. You, me… even Hell.”

  As he spoke, Hannibal saw the legions part and a column of light mounted soul-beasts emerge from the city, padding quickly toward them. Watching the Spirits approach in precise formation, Hannibal felt a twinge of envy; leading his beloved Numidian cavalry had been a special thrill for him, and he knew that there would be no such similar joys for him in Hell. And yet as he watched the first of the cavalry pull up he saw a decurion put the reins of a smaller mount—an Abyssal—into the hands of the Spirits’ commander.

  Sargatanas raised his hand acknowledging the approaching mounted demon. “Lord Karcefuge has had this mount prepared for you; he had it captured recently, thinking it inappropriate for a general not to have a proper mount in battle. I agreed.”

  Tribune Karcefuge sat nearly fifteen feet above Hannibal upon a saddle of ornately carved bone that had been impaled into the huge soul’s back. He leaned down and offered Hannibal the reins.

  The creature, unlike any he had seen, was half the height of the other steeds but still towered over the demon foot soldiers; Hannibal looked forward to it affording him a superior view of the battle to come.

  “Thank you, my lords,” Hannibal said, beaming. “It is an unbelievable gift, a gift beyond my hopes. But what kind of creature is it?”

  “We call them qirial-pe-latha… skin skippers to the Waste dwellers. It has been trained to answer to ‘Gaha.’ Its name means ‘Cub of the Wastes’ in our tongue.”

  Unlike the tough-hided soul-beasts, its body was encased in the broad, almost gaudy silver-black scales characteristic of so many Infernal species, scales that Hannibal knew were both flexible and tough. Low spines adorned most of the plates’ edges, growing into a short, spiky mane around its shoulder girdle. Its front legs, more like thin arms, were considerably shorter than its rear pair but nonetheless gave it a lithe and quick look. Arching away from its narrow shoulders, its neck supported a vertically flattened, heavily beaked head equipped with two yard-long d
aggers, which curved downward dangerously from its bottom jaw. Four tiny red eyes stared at him, watching him warily, and when he extended his hand and said, “Gaha,” it pulled back, emitting an odd hissing chatter.

  Encouraged by a nod from Sargatanas, Hannibal walked to its side, grasped the thick stirrup strap, and took hold of one of two strangely placed projections on the newly made saddle and climbed atop the creature’s back. His knees fit perfectly in front of two strangely placed projections, and he guessed that he would sit very securely if the beast reared. With a grin, Karcefuge handed him a sparking crop. Tapping the beast’s plated haunch with it, Hannibal brought Gaha around to face the demons. The smile was unmistakable upon his face; it had been so long since he had ridden. The demons were right; a general should be mounted.

  “Ride him with care, Soul-General,” Karcefuge said. “Gaha may have a few surprises for you on the battlefield.”

  “For now, have your brother assume command of your army, Hannibal,” said Sargatanas. A command-glyph blossomed above his head like a fiery flower, split apart, and sped off to ten different unit commanders. “We have much to discuss, and I want you by my side for the first leg of our march.” Whereupon the Lord of Adamantinarx wheeled his huge beast and, unsheathing the sword Lukiftias, signaled his fellow demons to mount and, amidst the shrill blaring of war horns and the hollow, rhythmic beat of kettledrums, set his army out to face the advancing legions of Moloch. The exultation that Hannibal felt at that moment was in no way dampened by his awareness that he might not return to the city he had sworn to defend. He was, and it would appear always would be, a warrior, and warriors by trade had to be pragmatists; the risks were no different in Hell than they had been during his life. He simply hoped, as he had so many times before, that if Oblivion took him it would find him with a sword in his hand. It was a simple hope, an age-old warrior’s hope.

  * * * * *

  Lilith woke suddenly to the sounds of horns and the deafening flapping of countless wings and banners mingled with shouted orders. She reached the window just in time to see Sargatanas and his lords pass beneath at the head of a large contingent of Foot Guard. They continued down the Rule and then took a turn marching out of sight toward, she guessed, the Fifth Gate. She looked up and saw the gathering formations of flying demons begin to stream in the same direction, following their lord’s command like migratory Abyssals answering the imperative of instinct. She watched this gathering of forces for some time, until something made her peer out farther into the darkness beyond the walls. There she could just discern a gathering clot of infinitely tiny figures that she knew must be another army, and she realized that this must be the Soul-General Hannibal’s army. Seeing them forming up, she was suddenly overcome with emotion; she realized that this was the army she had always en-visioned, the army she had begun with her little statues, the army for which Ardat Lili had been flayed. But notwithstanding that bitter memory, Lilith recognized that she, with Sargatanas, had given the souls something they could never have had in Hell otherwise, something she valued beyond almost everything—a semblance of free will. It was the beginning of their Infernal emancipation, and no matter whether they won or lost their battles, they were now more than they could ever have been without her efforts.

  THE WASTES

  The march lasted two full days, during which Hannibal had watched his army carefully, measuring their spirits as they trekked through the umbral landscape. Yen Wang and his Behemoths had been left behind; Sargatanas deemed them too precious to use in this encounter. Well into the second day, winged scouts brought word that a suitable location for their camp had been found, the shallow valley between two long ridges that smoldered with perpetual flames known as the Flaming Cut. When Sargatanas and his staff arrived at the scouts’ favored location the demon lord appeared satisfied that the lay of the surrounding terrain favored him.

  In his Life Hannibal had seen many eves of battle but only one eve of war. That war had lasted sixteen long years. Here, in Hell, it was no different; this eve of war was as pregnant with possibility, both fearful and glorious, as that one had been in his Life. He knew that conflicts had raged for eons, since Hell had been colonized, tearing away at the uneasy borders of every established feudal kingdom. But while those borders had constantly shifted no demon had ever gained anything that might threaten the hegemony; war, true war that feeds hungrily upon entire kingdoms, had not been permitted. But, Hannibal reflected, all that was about to change.

  “Mago,” he said, approaching his brother, who was seated, quietly sharpening his blade. “Gather the generals. There is something I must tell them.”

  Mago hesitated but, seeing that Hannibal would not offer any explanation, set about his task. The Soul-General waited, impatiently. Sargatanas’ plan came at a price, and Hannibal was almost as reluctant to relay its details as he was to disobey his new lord.

  One by one the souls appeared and stood before Hannibal, anxiously awaiting word of what their roles would be in the coming battle. When he was satisfied that all were present, Hannibal cleared his dry throat.

  “Generals, I will be brief. What I am about to ask of you on behalf of Lord Sargatanas will shock you and truly put to the test our mettle as leaders. Our role… that of the souls… will be essential to the outcome of this battle, but it will be seen by our soldiers as nothing short of treachery on the part of our demon allies. I ask you to listen and then go back to your officers and units and make them understand the gravity of the situation. I ask you to trust me as I trust Sargatanas. I believe in him and this plan for battle.”

  Hannibal looked as his handpicked generals and remembered other reluctant generals and other difficult times and knew then that he could be convincing, that he could lay out his lord’s plan effectively. It was Hannibal’s talent to be able to persuade those around him to die for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  DIS

  The two hundred Knights stood around him drenched in the steaming blood of sinners. Behind them, hung by their heels on sturdy racks, gagged and flailing, were hundreds of skinned souls, unwilling participants in a pre-battle tradition that went back to Dis’ distant origins. Fresh skin cloaks hung about the warriors’ shoulders still rippling and twitching, parted from the souls only moments earlier. A number of orbs lay in a cluster to one side awaiting dissolution. Dripping in glistening rivulets from scarlet-hued breastplates, cloaks, and weapons alike, red-black blood pooled slowly at their heavily shod feet, leaving the assembled Knights deeply stained. Adramalik, leaning on a long, barbed pike, noted with pride the perfectly aligned star-shaped pattern of their parade formation, the precise angles of unsheathed swords, and the fierce, toothy grins that each of his proteges bore. It had been a long period of relative inactivity for them, a period filled with restless activity, of controlled violence and uncontrolled perversion. But even knowing this, it was apparent to the Chancellor General, reviewing them in tight-lipped silence, that their loyalty and discipline were total, that they had not lost anything of their edge.

  A soul was brought forth, dragged by two large Knights-in-training to the center of the formation before Adramalik. Selected for the unusual barbarity of his life, he was a large individual, in Hell a chief mason perhaps, with oversized hands and a sloping, furrowed head. He was trussed in deep-cutting, crisscrossing ceremonial cords of gold, and from each intersection depended an amulet, an inscribed, fly-shaped talisman that the Knighthood had been awarded for every hard-fought victory. As they dragged the soul the golden flies jingled against the wires, an odd, light sound that was disharmonious with the muffled, throaty moaning that issued from his gagged mouth.

  Adramalik lowered the barbed shaft until it was chest high, pointing it at the kneeling soul. Seeing this, the Knights began, in low whispers, to intone their credo, a series of short obeisances first to Lucifer the Lost and then to Beelzebub. Each Knight in turn stepped forward and with his drawn sword, and with only one thrust, pierced the soul in a different sp
ace between the golden cords. The chanting grew louder with each recapitulation, and when it was nearly shouted the Knights-in-training grasped the soul under his arms, raising him above their heads and then dropping him with gurgling screams upon the upraised pike. There, vertically impaled, he slumped, and all eyes watched what was left of his blood flow down the pike’s shaft until it reached Adramalik’s hands.

  Silence descended like a hammer.

  Capping the pike with Beelzebub’s crest—a great, golden fly—Adramalik raised the newly created standard high overhead, and the Knights responded by breaking formation, each moving to his steed at the head of a full mounted battalion that stretched out and down the broad, torch-lit Avenue of War. Barracks along its length were still emptying their legions onto the avenue behind the cavalry. Fiery unit sigils stood out in the haze of ash, dwindling as they progressed down the avenue to pinpoints of light in the far distance, lights that reminded the Chancellor General of the specks upon an Abyssal serpent’s back.

  A sound of cries and crunching caused him to turn in time to see Moloch looming huge upon his soul-steed, trampling a few luckless demon foot soldiers underfoot as he took the forward position. His wheeling mount was an immense Melding—a many-legged, headless steed fashioned of souls compressed into a form from which sprouted a dozen weapon-wielding arms. With a snarl and an annoyed flick of one of his Hooks, Moloch set the army in motion. It was a small gesture, Adramalik noted, but a gesture heavy with significance. War was at hand, a war that Adramalik was certain would have but a single outcome. And when it was over, tired as he was of the ceaseless politics, he thought that he might take up residence far from Dis, perhaps somewhere in the newly conquered territory where he could indulge himself away from the ever-watchful eyes of Beelzebub’s court. It was a fantasy that caught Adramalik off guard, one that he had never considered before but which brought him some pleasure. As he made his way out of the capital, he found himself looking at the passing succession of familiar landmarks as one who was, at long last, bidding them farewell, a conflicting mixture of euphoria and melancholia washing through him.