“You speak of ‘angels’ and ‘abominations.’ Just where do you think you are?” asked Beelzebub.
“But to use them as he does is to become as dirty inside as they are.”
“To use them, you fool, was to annihilate my army!” Beelzebub roared, the buzzing making the Chancellor General’s painful head throb. Agares splashed backward as the Prince rose in a roiling cloud from the throne and rematerialized seconds later below, before Faraii. High above, the hanging skins flapped agitatedly. Slowly and with apparent affection Beelzebub reached out a hand and began to caress the seated demon’s face, wiping the drool from him with the fluttering wings of a hundred flies. The act seemed to soothe the Prince. He turned to the Chancellor, who had bowed so low that his upper robes hung well into the crimson puddles.
“I was there,” the Prince said. “I was at the Flaming Cut. At least, part of me was there. Look and understand, fool.” He extended his left arm; it ended in a stump of angry, milling flies. “I wanted to see Sargatanas for myself, see his ‘brilliance’ with my own eyes, and so my Hand, formed into a simple legionary, marched just behind you… no farther than I am to you now… all the way to the Cut and into battle. Did you think Faraii chose his own moment to betray his lord?”
Adramalik shook his head. He had truly never guessed.
“In the chaos of Moloch’s destruction I changed sides, I became one of them and returned with them to their city, and even now, even as we speak, I search the streets of Adamantinarx. Do you know why?”
Adramalik knew what was coming.
“Because you failed to bring her back to me!”
Adramalik staggered. In the haze of pain that suddenly swept through him he wondered if he was going to walk from the Rotunda or finally be destroyed.
But the moment passed. Beelzebub continued to stroke Husk Faraii’s face.
“What have I done… ruling in Lucifer’s stead… to deserve this… but what Lucifer himself would have done?”
“It is as you say,” the Chancellor General uttered through clenched teeth. “You have ruled just as Lucifer would have done. With firmness and steady resolve.”
“And so I shall continue. I fought at Lucifer’s side against the armies of the Above. If I cannot destroy the rebel Sargatanas I do not deserve to rule in this place. I will not use the souls of Dis to fight a demon… their lot is punishment, not empowerment. But I, too, can call upon allies.”
He would risk everything to compete with Sargatanas! He will bring Dis to its knees!
But Adramalik glanced over at Agares and held his tongue.
“Allies, my Prince?”
“Lucifuge Rofocale, Lords Berith, Carnefiel, and Malgaras, all have pledged their support; their legions are forming at this moment. Together they will form an alliance that will bring my army back to full strength and more.”
“And who will coordinate them, my Prince?”
Adramalik sensed the answer and felt his spirits sink lower than he could have imagined. This responsibility would surely take him down the path to his destruction.
Beelzebub looked sharply at Agares and then back at the Chancellor General. “I thought that would have been obvious… Prime Minister.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Hannibal woke with a start.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes; he knew immediately that he was not as he had been, not whole. Weakly he tried to sit up, but he heard Mago quietly tell him to lie still. He was in an unfamiliar room somewhere, he guessed, in Adamantinarx. Which was a relief, because it told him that the battle had been won.
His entire left arm was gone, traded, he saw, for the immense hooked weapon that lay ominously on the table nearby. It was as long as his arm had been. Strange that it is here, the instrument of my loss.
But stranger still was the tarnished and pitted disk that lay next to it. It was Moloch—or what was left of him. A spoil of war, a prize beyond measure, and, clearly, left for him as an honor. But what, if anything, could he, a soul, do with it: wear it around his neck? He would have to ask Lilith or Eligor.
“Tell me, Mago. Tell me what I missed.”
“You are fortunate, my brother,” Mago said plainly. “Fortunate to have survived Moloch and more so still to have had the First Consort, herself, attend your wounds.”
He thought about the battle and about his confrontation with his ex-god. As blurred in Hannibal’s mind as was the duel itself, equally sharp was the memory of that furious face.
“And Lord Sargatanas?”
“He lives… but he is not as he was.”
Hannibal looked down for the first time at his vacant shoulder and said “Nor am I.”
“No, Hannibal, it isn’t like that… he was wounded, true, but that isn’t the change I meant. He is now bone-white from head to toe.”
“A miracle?”
“Or a curse. The city is full of rumors, not all good. Some see it as an omen of catastrophe. Lord Yen Wang, in particular, seems uneasy; some of his minions are spreading doubts among the other demons.”
“Doubts?”
Mago rubbed his chin. Hannibal could not tell which side of the argument his brother favored.
“The city is in a state that you and I remember well enough from our own fair city… war preparations. While most believe the officially disseminated story, only a few truly know what happened to him to change him as he now is. Some say it is Lucifer’s doing and that he has marked Sargatanas. Or the First Consort’s ensorcellment, which, in my opinion, holds a grain of plausibility. Cynics say that he is delusional, mad, and that somehow this has transformed him inside as well as outside. They are in the minority. And the newer allies… Put Satanachia, whom you haven’t met, aside… seem like little more than opportunists. I might be wrong; that’s my impression, though. But all of this creates an aura of uncertainty that runs through the streets like effluvia.”
Hannibal knew that variety of poison. During wartime it could be as deadly as a well-aimed arrow. He had done everything in his life to avoid it.
Mago looked down. Hannibal saw his brother’s gray hands working at the folds of his Abyssal-skin robes.
“What is it, Brother?”
Mago frowned. “This is not the time.”
“Ask.”
“Does it not trouble you, this alliance of ours? Demons and souls?”
Hannibal closed his eyes. How could he explain his need to pursue power no matter where he was? Would Mago understand?
“Yes, it does trouble me. If it were any other demon but Sargatanas I would never have had the courage to get involved. Nor would I have had a chance. I’m sure you’ve noticed that they’re not at ease having us as allies, either. Sargatanas isn’t like the rest of them. He has a single-minded purity of purpose… something like my own.”
“And just what is your… purpose?”
“You spoke of opportunists. That would be what we are, Mago. For us, this is a rebellion of convenience. At first, I was swept up by the goal that he held out… that shining chance to go to Heaven. But now… especially after the battle… I just don’t know.
“When we were fighting, and the souls around me were being cut down, it didn’t seem to me that they were anything but dead, not the living death of being turned into a brick, either. I wondered, ‘Will that ever change?’ To me, Mago, it’s still very much an open question as to whether we will ever have that chance.”
Mago stood and turned toward a stone-sheathed wall. He looked up at the glyphs-of-protection that circled the ceiling.
“Does that change anything… I mean for you as our general?”
“No. You know me, Mago; I’m no dreamer. I’m a realist. I am in Hell and I deserve to be here for what I’ve done. As do you and all the others. If we cannot go to Heaven, I, for one, won’t be surprised. I hope that we can. But, with that said, I will lead the souls with the same vigor I’d have if I did truly believe.”
“
Hannibal, your entire life was about pursuing dreams.”
Hannibal laughed and then winced, clutching his painful shoulder.
“The power I have in the here and now,” he said after a few moments, “that’s what’s important. Could you have imagined, during all those long, torture-filled centuries, that I… we… would be in the position we’re in now? If I can better our lot here, then that is reason enough to lead.”
Mago turned back to the pallet and looked down at his brother. “For you, this is about power?”
“Everything is about power.”
“Not everything. Not for Sargatanas.”
“That’s why he may fail.”
* * * * *
He saw her face again and could not believe, with all that he had seen in Hell, that it was still the most affecting image his dream-mind could produce. Funny, a part of him reflected, that the Hell inside his head was more potent than the one outside, that no matter what horrors he saw, it was her shining, trusting infant eyes that cut him to the marrow.
The child spoke his name and it felt like an arrow flying into his breast, but as it was repeated its sound changed, growing huskier and assuming a strange accent until, after a moment, he realized that she was not uttering it. As he awoke he recognized the voice to be that of Lilith, and when he opened his eyes he was looking up into her perfect oval face.
“Hannibal?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“How are you?”
“Mending, my lady. With thanks to you.”
“Are you feeling ‘mended’ enough for an answer to your questions about this?” another voice asked. Sargatanas appeared behind Lilith, the disk of Moloch held in his hand.
“My lord!” It had seemed so long since he had seen Sargatanas. He is transformed! Hannibal swung his legs over the side of the pallet and tried to step down, but Lilith put a restraining hand on his chest.
“He seems strong enough, my lord,” Lilith said, smiling.
“He will have to be,” Sargatanas said. “I need him at the head of his legions.”
Sargatanas turned the ugly disk in his hand. Its edges were sharp and jagged, and Hannibal heard them scrape on the demon’s hard palm as he regarded it. He seemed apprehensive about the object, almost cautious in the way he handled it.
“Hannibal, there are many things that I can do in this world, but giving you your arm back… to undo the dismemberment… is not among them. There are ways, though, that you can, once again, have a living limb, but to do this I would need, simply put, a catalyst… an object of power that would add the necessary new elements to my abilities. This,” he said, holding the Moloch disk up between his thumb and forefinger, “is one such object.
“And how would that be done?”
“I would have to place this inside your shoulder.”
A ripple of fear spread through Hannibal as he unconsciously reached for his shoulder. To enfold the ex-god within himself was a detestable idea, an act that would embrace the very entity that had caused him so much grief. He shook his head.
“You can, of course, elect to not use the disk. It will be otherwise useless to you… a simple trophy, well won, to put upon a shelf,” Lilith said. “There is no shame in choosing that alternative, Hannibal.”
“I have no other such items at hand,” Sargatanas said. “I am sure one will turn up eventually, but not in time for the upcoming battle.”
Hannibal looked down, considering the possibilities.
“This is our way… the demons’ way,” Sargatanas said plainly, putting a hand to the countless layered phalerae that were embedded in his chest. “There is no telling how it may affect you. I have never heard of this being done with a soul, and so there is no precedent. In all likelihood you will benefit by simply growing a new arm… that is the invocation I would be using. It would be too unpredictable to attempt to augment your abilities in any way.”
“We can give you a short time to decide,” Lilith said, “but the allies’ armies are arriving and very soon Sargatanas will be departing.” She looked toward the demon and Hannibal saw the concern flash across her features. “You will have to decide before then.”
Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment and saw the fleeting image of his daughter’s face, still fresh from his dream. It would feel like another betrayal of her to accept the Moloch disk. But would it really be one? What would Imilce say? He did not relish the idea of fighting with only one arm, nor could he be the kind of general who stayed behind the front ranks, ordering others to fight. He was in Hell, and to survive he needed every advantage.
“There is no need to wait, my lord and lady. I will accept this.” The ashen taste of fear, an unfamiliar taste, tightened his throat.
Lilith put a hand on his shoulder.
“You need not worry, Hannibal. Sargatanas has no doubts regarding the outcome of this invocation.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
Sargatanas set himself, took a deep breath, and began to intone four phrases four times in a voice comprised of four harmonics:
“Ogiodi Azdra… Tplabc Zibra… Rnoizr Nrzfm… Rplalen Bbemo… Yolcam Abzien!”
Four large glyphs, simple in form but different in color, appeared and began to circle the Demon Major’s head and by the fourth revolution they spread out, two on either side.
Lilith squeezed Hannibal’s hand as Sargatanas used the disk’s sharp edge to slice open her careful stitches. With a powerful thrust he pushed it deep within the shoulder until it was lodged beneath the soul’s collarbone. Immediately the demon spoke one of the four paired words and the corresponding glyph dropped down into Hannibal’s open wound, causing a terrible burning that spread throughout his body. The next glyphs brought, in rapid succession, the sensations of drowning in some engulfing, cloying liquid followed by a sudden cracking coldness and finally parching dryness. He saw Sargatanas’ lips moving but could hear nothing. Shocked and nauseated, Hannibal retched until his stomach ached. When he was finished he looked weakly at his wound and was dimly amazed that, without stitches, it had sealed itself.
“I chose you well, Hannibal Barca,” Lilith said softly. “Your strength is matched only by your courage. Rest now and we will send Mago in to be with you.”
She turned to leave, but Sargatanas lingered.
“There is one small thing more.” He extended his hand and with his index finger described a flowing pattern in the air above the soul’s shoulder, an arcing, actinic line of blue flame that looked, to Hannibal, like a charging animal. The glyph did not fade, and with every slight movement the soul made it moved with him.
“You are the first soul in Hell’s long, dark history to have earned his own sigil. It will be a mark of distinction… of power and protection… upon the battlefield,” the demon said with a touch of pride. And then, as he stood, he added, “You will be needing it in the next days!”
Exhausted as he was, Hannibal managed a faint grin.
* * * * *
Lilith glanced at Sargatanas and thought he had never seemed more preoccupied. He was at once attentive and loving but consumed, as well, with the minutiae of state. He had an army to create—even greater than before—and time was running short. Accompanied by Zoray and a cohort of his Foot Guard, he and Lilith, after reviewing the remaining legions just outside the gates, ascended along the Rule from the tangle of the Acheron’s bank-side streets up toward the distant palace. On either side of the avenue, souls and demons alike knelt silently, staring at the two white figures in wonderment.
These were the days that she would long for, Lilith knew, even as, like jewels falling one by one from a broken necklace, they fell away. Though Adamantinarx was in a bustling state of mobilization, she and Sargatanas managed to keep constant company, to go from site to site and watch the mustering city at its finest. Part of her sensed that he was bringing her along not only out of love but also to familiarize her with the workings of the great city. In some place in her mind she wondered if he was gro
oming her for some role in the city.
Walking next to the demon lord, Lilith found it difficult not to descend into melancholia; the thought of his possible impending loss—through either the attainment of his goal or his destruction on the battlefield—was so daunting. And the third alternative—a hollow victory wherein he simply returned to his city, unfulfilled—worried her nearly as much. She did not want to feel dependent upon him, but that possibility was becoming truth. The pushing and pulling of her conflicting desires—her own admittedly selfish hunger for him against her urge to help him attain his goal—confused her. Perhaps it was just the vapors blowing off the Acheron that had made her so low spirited.
As they entered the palace precincts, a messenger approached Zoray, saluted, and spoke briefly as they walked. When he departed, the Demon Minor turned to Sargatanas.
“My lord, we are still coming up short on the numbers of souls. Mago and his commanders have informed me that they are able to field only nineteen full legions… not even close to what you had hoped for.”
Sargatanas looked up at the sky and sighed. “We need to be ready to march the moment our allies’ armies arrive. Begin to take down the buildings.”
“My lord…?”
“And conscript the workers as well. Mago will know how to integrate them into the soul army. Every soul who survived the Flaming Cut should be put in charge of a new cohort.”
“But, my lord, the city’s buildings…?”
“Are a resource to be used. Start with the domiciles, destroying those within, then the shops, then the bigger buildings, and so on until we have the numbers we need. And, Zoray, use the palace as well.”
They resumed walking. Zoray looked confounded.
“My lord… you are sacrificing Adamantinarx?”
“The city can be rebuilt… but not with souls. There is plenty of native stone out there to be quarried.”
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