The Chancellor General began to sense the shifting tides around him, the dwindling of his own forces to his back, and the sudden influx of soldiers as they began to retreat from the wavering front. With little effort he now saw Shock Troopers, and perhaps Baron Faraii himself, backing away from the vortex of destruction that emanated from Sargatanas and his fellow generals. And, hearing the tumult from the souls attacking behind him, he began to wonder whether it was fast growing time to withdraw.
Valefar flicked his sword and a terrible scream rent the air as Moloch’s already-disabled hand fell to the ground severed. Blood streamed thickly from the wound, black and thick, clotting upon the fleshy ground and making the Pridzarhim’s footing uncertain.
Adramalik suddenly saw souls hacking at his legionaries, much closer than he had realized. Turning fully around, he saw the same soul—their general, he guessed—leap into the fray upon the back of his Abyssal mount. The soul was clearly an expert rider, raising his mount upon two feet to avoid the more concentrated knots of fighting soldiers. Swinging a heavy sword, the general leaned far out of his saddle, chopping fiercely at Adramalik’s demons, even destroying one of his Knights not thirty paces from him. The battle had turned, and now, Adramalik thought, now would be the time to leave the field. He glanced back at Moloch. No need to stay; the duel’s outcome was all but certain.
Shock Troopers and demons from Adamantinarx fought just behind Valefar, but seeming not to notice, he raised his sword once again and as it plunged deep into the ex-god’s chest a strange look came over the demon lord’s face—a look of shock and puzzlement mixed. For just an instant Adramalik thought he saw the thin point of a black sword protruding from just beneath Valefar’s chin. The blade worked from side to side, deftly slicing a long arc, and then was gone. Did I really see it? Adramalik wondered. Without waiting he turned and ran, finding a dozen or so of his Knights who had banded together for protection against the overwhelming numbers of souls who now flooded across the field. Escape was uppermost in their minds.
It was a total failure. Somehow, he thought, somehow Sargatanas has done it again!
Dis was a long way off; with them hunted continually by Sargatanas’ troops, theirs would be a difficult journey home. And, Adramalik realized with a pang of terror, at the end of that journey the Prince, without his Consort and now his champion as well, would welcome him from this day with little less than total contempt and all of the pain that it would bring.
* * * * *
Eligor dove down toward where Valefar had been standing, the sense of urgency pounding in his head, the hot air screaming beneath his wings as he tried to gain speed. He had finally spotted the demon lord amidst a carpet of retreating demons, found him by the fire of his blue-flame sword. Moloch, Eligor had also seen. The ex-god was struggling to stand, propped up by his broken wing-stilts and burned by a hundred cuts. Valefar stood before him, legs apart and sword-arm outstretched, but something was not right, because as Eligor descended he had seen the sword leave the demon lord’s hand and fall to the ground. And then, to Eligor’s horror, he had seen a brilliant flash followed by a gathering whirlwind that began to obscure the field in a funnel of ash that grew in intensity, making his and his fellow Guardsdemons’ rapid descent extremely difficult.
When he alighted he knew that what he had feared, what in the back of his mind he had tried to deny, was true. Valefar was nowhere to be seen and Moloch was still alive, panting heavily, blood streaming in a hundred rivulets, single Hook raised defiantly. At bay and swiping at the Flying Guard who were harrying him with their lances, he was dangerous yet.
The Guard Captain, momentarily in shock, saw his lord’s sigil through the wavering sheets of wind-driven ash and the countless fleeing enemies; Sargatanas was nearly at hand, and Eligor knew that his lord would be all too eager to confront Moloch. But as that thought crossed his mind, Hannibal’s steed leaped upon two legs into view, the general pulling hard upon the reins, making the creature drop quickly down on all fours. Without hesitating, Hannibal sprang down from the saddle and attacked the ex-god, swinging the sword that Sargatanas had given him with a fury that Eligor had never conceived possible in a soul.
Moloch, spent as he was, was no faster than Hannibal in his defensive moves. They traded blows and parries and then one long, raking attack caught Hannibal on his shoulder, twisting him around and tearing a gash that peeled the soul’s left arm to his knee and lodged the Hooks in his ribs. Moloch tried, futilely, to disengage the weapon from the soul’s body for a killing blow but in the effort brought Hannibal to within striking distance. Caught on the weapon and grimacing with pain, he leaned in even closer to the bent form of the ex-god and with a single vicious one-handed chop severed the snarling head from its neck. Immediately the ground began to shake, knocking Hannibal and those demons around him off their feet, and Eligor, some paces away, took wing and watched Moloch’s body collapse inward in a red flare of light and disappear.
When the shaking of the ground had subsided, Eligor rushed to the Soul-General’s side, pulling him to one knee. Carefully Eligor pulled the giant Hook from the terrible wound. Hannibal held himself up by his sword and raised his eyes to Eligor’s.
“So you see,” Hannibal said weakly, “it is not so hard to kill one’s god, after all.” His eyes closed and he slumped against the demon’s leg.
Eligor nodded respectfully; he knew what Moloch had been to Hannibal and understood what the soul had achieved. Eligor waved some of his Guard over to surround Hannibal and instructed them to bind his wounds. The Soul-General was still alive, and Eligor carefully watched glyphs-of-healing being created to keep him that way until they returned to Adamantinarx. Eligor was uncertain about the soul’s ability to heal himself; these awful wounds had been inflicted by a weapon with unimaginable properties. When he looked up he saw the welcome form of Sargatanas standing before him. Apart from a fist-sized, oozing hole in his armored side, the Lord of Adamantinarx was unharmed. Eligor watched him move slowly to where Valefar had stood and saw Sargatanas reach down to pick up the demon’s sword. The fires of its blade grew, spreading briefly over the hilt and onto Sargatanas’ shaking hand. The strong blue light etched the profound sadness of his face forever upon Eligor’s mind.
Eligor began to search through the rubble and ash for Moloch’s disk. When he found it, a dark, heavy, and tarnished thing, he brought it to his lord, who regarded it for a moment.
“Keep it with him,” he said quietly, indicating Hannibal. “I am sure he will want it.”
Eligor’s eyes began to search the ground where they stood. Steam began to form in their corners, hindering his efforts.
“I… I do not see his disk, my lord.”
Sargatanas scanned the ground as well, finding nothing.
Turning away, the demon lord looked up at the curling zephyrs of ash that rose high into the olive sky. Eligor could almost feel the enormous grief that was taking hold of him.
“Perhaps, the winds have taken it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Valefar’s empty chambers seemed like another world altogether to Eligor as he sat glumly at the Prime Minister’s enormous bone desk. The absolute silence, the transparent wisps of smoke that drifted in the slowest of curling eddies from the tiny crack in one of the windows, the dull sound of the heart-clock, all contributed to the overwhelming sense of absence.
It had been weeks since Eligor’s return to Adamantinarx, and the sense of loss at the passing of Valefar was keener than ever. Before he had locked himself away in his chambers, Sargatanas had told Eligor to go and sort through the Prime Minister’s belongings and papers, to gather the important documents of state and anything Eligor might want as a keepsake. Sargatanas had asked for nothing himself; the chambers were to be sealed, and their contents were to be left as they were. With that imparted he had turned and headed to his chambers, a dark and somber figure in a now-emptier realm.
Eligor sh
ifted a heavy stack of vellum documents to one side of the desktop. He had chosen one of Valefar’s aides, a Demon Minor named Fyrmiax, to assist him in what he knew would be a difficult task, and he could hear the demon in one of the far rooms rummaging about. Sargatanas had yet to appoint a new prime minister, and Eligor knew that it would not be this demon. The position had been equal parts administrative and honorary; Eligor suspected that it might be some time before the position would be filled.
He pushed himself up from the desk and, with a sigh, began to make piles of the documents, stacking them by the door so that Fyrmiax could load them onto the small bone pull-carts that waited in the corridor. As Eligor went from one chamber to another, he saw innumerable poignant signs of Valefar’s presence, objects or arrangements of objects that gave the impression of just having been used. The case his sword had been kept in lay open upon his pallet, the imprint of its light form still visible upon its cushioned interior.
Moving farther into Valefar’s private world, Eligor caught sight of the cabinet behind which he knew the hidden compartment lay. Inexplicably, he felt a compulsion to open it and look within it for one last time. Its existence was a secret only he, now, knew of, and he saw no reason to mention it; it was, after all, only an empty space.
Closing the door to the brazier-lit inner room, he went back to the cabinet and began to pull the scrolled vellums down, careful not to crush any. He removed the shelves and then spent some time feeling around for the hidden latch that Valefar had so easily found. Eligor felt a slight thud beneath his hand from somewhere behind the wall, and the panel opened and again the dust of time sifted upward.
Eligor knelt and peered into the dark, rectangular space, not really sure what, if anything, he expected to find. It looked just as he had remembered it, featureless and simple. But when he ran his hand against the rough back wall he discovered a ledge and upon it something that moved slightly when he made contact. Reaching farther in, he found a small, footed casket, which he carefully pulled out. It was carved of bone, dyed, and inlaid with precisely cut chips of obsidian of differing colors.
Eligor found a low bench to sit on and, unfastening its simple latch, opened the box. Within it were two objects carefully wrapped in thin, finely dressed soul-skin, one larger than the other. He picked up the two bundles and weighed them in his hands, debating whether opening them represented an act of posthumous betrayal, an uncontestable intrusion into the Prime Minister’s privacy. Ultimately, Eligor remembered Sargatanas’ offer—that he could take anything he wanted—and this provided enough justification that he began to slowly unwrap the larger object. In seconds a small bone statue, exquisite in its every detail, rested upon the skin spread upon his lap. It was Lilith, carved, he now knew, by her own hand. Bits of what Eligor guessed were the charred remains of Valefar’s own feathers, presumably gathered like sad reliquaries from the Fall, lay in dark flakes around it. How could he have gotten this statue? They were given only to souls by Lilith. Valefar had been present when his lord had taken the female soul’s statue that fateful day so long ago. Perhaps he had acquired this one in a similar way. But if so, would he not have mentioned it? Or… or did she give it to him?
Scooping up the statue and the precious bits of feather, Eligor placed them on a small table. Taking up the second small burden, he noted how heavy it was comparatively. If he was surprised by the first object, he was positively astonished by the second. Lying upon its dark wrappings, simple in its design but ominous by its very significance, was an Order of the Fly medallion. Valefar… an Order Knight? Impossible! Beneath the dully gleaming Fly, Eligor saw the corner of a folded piece of vellum, and smoothing it open, he began to read the crabbed script of Dis:
Valefar,
I have taken the liberty of secreting this among your personal effects. This commission was well earned; the services you performed as Primus of the Order to our Prince, if performed unhappily, were exemplary. It was your sad misfortune to have Fallen in the immediate proximity of this city and thus to have to serve it and its master; I know you will be more at ease wherever else you choose to settle. And I know that, in departing, you will leave behind the one for whom you care most. She will be safer for your decision. I will see to it.
For now and always remember me as your friend in Dis.
Agares
Was this possible? thought Eligor, his mind racing. The conclusions he was inferring went beyond anything he could have guessed. The statue and the medallion, together in a casket hidden away, both precious, painful reminders of a time past in Dis. Did they signify a relationship between Valefar and Lilith? The more Eligor pondered it, the more certain he grew. But did Sargatanas know of it? Eligor sat stunned, the medal growing heavy in his enervated hand.
Frowning, Eligor regarded the opening in the wall, considering his choices. He would not take these things as reminders of his friend, would not run the risk of their ever being found. Instead Eligor carefully separated the feathers from the skin around the statue and put them on a table. He then rewrapped the statue and the medallion and placed them back inside the casket, latching it shut. He put it back into the wall compartment, sealed the opening, and reorganized the bookcase, leaving it exactly as he had found it. Returning to the small pile of feathers, he carefully scooped them into a clean blood-ink vial, a fitting symbol, he felt, for the demon who had been Prime Minister of Adamantinarx for so long.
Eligor cast a final look around the innermost room and then closed the door behind him, sealing it with a glyph. Its secret was safe. He navigated through the rooms, passing Fyrmiax as he quietly went about collecting scrolls and vellums. Eligor’s eyes fell upon a volume from the Library, something that Valefar had apparently been in the midst of reading—a collection of reminiscences of the Above. He picked it up wondering whether the Prime Minister had been reminiscing himself or had been questioning his lord’s decision. Eligor would never know. He put the book aside unsure whether he would read it himself or simply return it to the Library.
As the two demons filled the small carts, the rooms’ clutter melted away, revealing, one by one, the bare surfaces of their many desktops. Eligor could not help but think the rooms looked, if possible, even sadder relieved of their friendly clutter. It was as if the demons were erasing the hand of Valefar.
After nearly a day of sorting and stacking, the carts were filled to overflow and Eligor and Fyrmiax, leaning against the corridor wall exhausted, watched as six demons trundled them off. Tired and dispirited but glad that the job was done, Eligor wordlessly clapped Fyrmiax on the shoulder, and the other Demon Minor nodded and began down the corridor.
There was only one act left, and that was to seal the chambers. Eligor took a final look at the familiar, once-inviting rooms, picked up the large volume, and closed the door behind him. He produced the red seal that Sargatanas had given him and, with a wave of his hand, floated it directly over the door’s lintel. When the seal was in place he uttered a command and watched the complex glyph replicate itself dozens of times until a hundred identical copies had slowly outlined the door frame. He then extended his hand to touch the door and a hundred swift glyph-arrows converged to prevent him from making contact; had he persisted he would have been destroyed. He pulled his stinging hand back. It was done.
The tome tucked under his arm, Eligor took a deep breath and headed back to his chambers. He would try to forget this day but knew that, like so many other dark days, he probably never would.
DIS
“Will you be able to do this, Chancellor General?”
Nergar’s voice, which seemed to come from somewhere far off, sounded concerned, but Adramalik knew better than that. The Chief of Security was sure to be enjoying Adramalik’s profound misery.
“Of course, Lord Nergar,” he said with little conviction. Adramalik felt as if he were not really there in the Keep’s Basilica of Security, not really sitting in the small, featureless, brick-walled room with the despicable Nergar awaiting the arrival
of Prime Minister Agares.
Adramalik closed his eyes again and, this time, thought of the pain as some kind of a parasite, something recently acquired that now lived within him, feeding off his body with a blind hunger. He had seen such creatures far out in the Wastes, attached by the dozens to Abyssals that could barely move for the collective weight of them. Then he could hardly imagine the host’s pain. But now he could.
The ragtag survivors of the Battle of the Flaming Cut had filtered back to Dis, exhausted and miserable, and most had been greeted with summary destruction. Beelzebub’s manifold anger had spared no one, and to his shame, Adramalik bore the unenviable distinction of being the highest-ranking demon to return. Knowing that he could not afford to be without his personal bodyguard, the Prince had determined to inflict as much pain upon his Knights as they could endure before they were entirely broken. The ceaseless moaning in the Knights’ quarters was unending testimony to their Prince’s patience. Adramalik, himself, had not been exempt, and now, some weeks later, he still wondered if it might have been better to destroy himself on the field of battle. As the unpredictable waves of searing pain ebbed and flowed throughout him he still toyed with the idea. Beelzebub’s Invocation of Atonement would only stop when the Prince chose to lift it. And he was not known for his forgiveness.
Adramalik opened his eyes and looked across the room into the shadowed corner where Nergar sat. A single light-glyph cast a partial radiance upon the room, but even in the gloom Adramalik could see the demon’s chiseled features, features that many believed were not his own. There was something too perfect, too angelic, about them to have survived the Fall so minimally affected.
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