God's Demon

by Wayne Barlowe

  “And the number of souls is to remain as high as you had first said?”

  “Yes. We are marching on the capital of Hell, Zoray, not some insignificant ward of Astaroth’s.”

  Zoray nodded and then saluted. Breaking away from the procession, he hurried ahead and disappeared amidst the streams of legionaries that were heading down to join the gathering legions.

  Lilith, who had overheard the exchange, moved closer to Sargatanas and placed her hand on his forearm.

  “What’s to become of the souls who return?”

  “They can do as they please… within limits. Limits that I’ll leave up to you. They can build their own cities out in the Wastes or live in what’s left of this one.”

  “Why not decide their future yourself?”

  “Because I don’t love them the way you do, Lilith,” he said simply.

  “Not even Hannibal?”

  “Perhaps Hannibal,” he admitted with a grin.

  The party entered the palace, splitting apart, with the Foot Guard and other functionaries leaving Sargatanas and Lilith to head up the giant staircase to his chambers on their own. Without a word they took each other’s hands and the gentle, reassuring squeeze that he gave her brought a smile to her lips. The day’s great meal was being prepared, but she looked forward to feeding their other hungers beforehand.

  * * * * *

  Something was subtly different; that much was clear. Whether it was the pall of the deconstruction that gripped the city, her sadness over Valefar’s absence, her own unease at the prospect of losing Sargatanas, or something more ineffable, she could not positively say. Sitting at the ancient, long table amidst the many noisy demons of Sargatanas’ court, Lilith watched the enormous joints of Abyssal meat slowly turning over a wide pit-fire and felt only the weight of change. But beyond that, she could not shake the sense that something physical was different. And so she sat quietly, listening but not adding much to the demons’ conversation that flowed around her.

  Sargatanas’ feasting hall was aglow in the copper light of a dozen tall four-legged braziers that were placed evenly around the central table. A running mural framed the wide room, depicting continuous scenes of ancient hunts with Sargatanas himself wielding famous weapons and joined by equally famous demons. Normally Lilith’s gaze would travel upward to that mural, but this evening she focused on her plate, only glancing up to look at someone when she was addressed.

  Seated across from her and Sargatanas and next to Andromalius were Put Satanachia and his Prime Minister, Pruslas. The Demon Major was, in this time of unrest, a welcome guest and easily the most powerful of her lord’s allies. Satanachia was, she thought, extraordinarily refined, robed in layers of thin, nacreous flesh and delicate spines, his moving features fine and ascetic, reflecting what Sargatanas had once described as the “nobility of the Highest Order of Seraphim.” The timing of his arrival could not have been better; not surprisingly, Lilith had learned that Sargatanas, Satanachia, and Valefar had known one another in the Above and had been regarded as inseparable. Satanachia was an engaging demon, exuberant in his storytelling, effortlessly pouring forth tales of his many hunting expeditions into the Wastes. Lilith had met him in Dis about as frequently as she had Sargatanas, and her impression of him was not dissimilar from that of her lord’s with one exception: where Sargatanas was appealingly earnest, even serious, Satanachia’s nature bordered on self-absorption. But because he was a true friend of her lord’s she recognized Satanachia’s importance to him and had, so far, been especially attentive. However, as her sadness deepened she listened only halfheartedly.

  “…and once we got past the volcanoes that border the western edge of my realm,” Satanachia continued, his voice mellow, “we were suddenly confronted by the Salamandrines who had been gathering in great numbers in hopes of streaming down toward my outlying cities. We slaughtered them all easily enough and then skinned their scrawny bodies for the hides. One of my tribunes knew enough of their tongue and was inventive enough to suggest that we leave them on the flesh-fields splayed out to spell a warning in the creatures’ own language. They have not troubled us since.” He paused for a moment, then added wryly, “Apparently they can read!”

  A murmur of approval ran up and down the table and Lilith smiled perfunctorily. At her side, Sargatanas grinned without looking up while slicing his silvery meat with his clawed fingers.

  “Satanachia, you must have spoken with Eligor by now,” he said, indicating his Captain. “He is the scholar among us and is actually quite well versed in the Waste primitives. He finds them…”

  “Fascinating, actually,” Eligor said with genuine enthusiasm, remembering Faraii’s many stories. “They were here for eons before us, surviving in the harshest environments, almost, it would seem, preferring them to the more moderate ones. They believe… or so I have been told… that this toughens them and that if they can make do with Hell’s worst then the other areas become effortless. It seems to work… they are very nearly as tough as the Abyssals they live among.”

  “Not so tough as to dull a skinning blade,” Pruslas remarked archly.

  Eligor persisted. “True, I suppose. But I have been considering the idea of capturing a few of them alive and bringing them back here to study. They are much brighter than we give them credit for. We all might learn something from them.”

  “Just how primitive they are is my guess,” added Satanachia.

  An enormous bowl of blackened, chopped finger-fan was placed before Lilith, and she looked at it dubiously. She squeezed Sargatanas’ arm and then rose from the table. For a moment all eyes were upon her; she supposed that they thought she was preparing to make some kind of speech, but instead she turned and headed for the balcony just off the feasting hall.

  As she approached the leaded doors she could hear the sound of innumerable tiny taps upon their thick, obsidian panes; frequent gusts laden with hot cinders almost made her regret her decision to come outside. Stepping out onto the balcony, she drew her whipping robes about her. Brushing away the coating of cinders, she put her elbows upon the balustrade and squinted out into the smoky-brown night of Hell. As cinder-storms went, this was a mild one, but even so, she frequently had to close her eyes.

  This place is all that I will ever know. It’s Lucifer all over again. Sargatanas will go on and I will be left here. How can I have found him only to lose him after so short a time? How can I love him so much and yet not wish him to attain what he wants?

  Lilith saw, through the curling currents of ash and cinders, the broad carpet of lights outside the walls that were the joined fires and sigils of the legions’ and souls’ encampments and imagined the legionaries preparing for war, yet again. His war. They must be numbering in the millions by now. And he commands them all. Such power! All of which he is so willing to give up—and me as well. For a dream.

  From below, the tiny, distant screams of buildings coming apart reached her ears, almost inaudible against the noise of the feasting hall and the wind. Eventually, as the demons retired, the sounds from inside diminished and she heard only the soughing of the hot wind through the sculpted eaves above her.

  The cinder-storm was passing. And just as she thought to go back inside, she felt a hand placed gently upon her back and she turned and looked up into Sargatanas’ face. Compassion was written upon his even features, and she almost could not bear to look at him. He returned her gaze, staring deeply, probingly into her eyes. She knew what he was doing, what he was capable of.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I know.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes. I know what you’re feeling…. I feel it as well. I know how unfair this all seems. The irony of finding you after all those millennia, only to…”

  He looked out toward the legions.

  “Only… what?”

  “Only to lose you because of a… vision.”

  She said nothing.

  “Lilith, my heart,” he said softly, “my mind was made up
long before you came here. I’m too far along in this to stop now.”

  “I know.” She was neither bitter nor angry. “Yours is the greatest vision anyone in Hell could have. I could never ask you to betray it, Sargatanas. Never. Especially not for me.”

  “You are the only reason I would consider giving it up. And knowing that you would never want to go to Heaven… it’s one of the hardest truths I’ve had to accept. I know how much resentment you have inside you… it’s understandable… but will you not reconsider?”

  If anyone other than Sargatanas had asked, anger would have been her first response. But she knew just how serious he was and responded with equal seriousness, as firm in her mind as he was in his.

  “Hell is where I will stay, my love.”

  “Would that I could give you Heaven instead.”

  “You have.”

  She reached up and pulled him down and they kissed, their emotions fanned by their awareness that now all things between them were, in all likelihood, transitory. How tightly must I hold him to make this a memory that will never fade? Some time in the solitary and distant future—perhaps millennia from now—she would remember this moment and almost disbelieve that it, like all the others they had shared, had happened.

  When they separated she looked into his eyes and for once knew without question what lay behind them: no matter where he was, his love for her would never cease.

  “What will you do if—when you are back?”

  Sargatanas looked away, almost as if the prospect of returning were now, somehow, something he could not talk about. After a moment he said, “I will bathe for a small eternity in the river called the Source to wash away this place. After that, I suppose, I will wait to be brought before the Throne. And you… when this is over?”

  “I don’t know; wander, I’m guessing. But I won’t be staying here.”

  He nodded, clearly understanding; staying in Adamantinarx would be a constant wounding reminder of their separation. The all-too-short time spent with this demon, in this city, was, she thought, so unlike her time in Dis, and yet both were proving to be sad beyond measure, for very different reasons.

  Without a word, he turned and beckoned her to come inside with him. Lilith held back for just a moment, the bitter memories of her past colliding with her unachievable, fleeting dreams of the future. And from them came inspiration.

  “Promise me one thing, Sargatanas,” she said. “Promise me that you will not let the Black Dome stand when you are done with the Fly.”

  He looked into her eyes, again finding what he needed to know, and said, “I will. For you… and Ardat.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DIS

  “I summoned you because something appears to be happening across Adamantinarx,” the newly appointed Prime Minister heard Agaliarept hiss. Pointing abruptly and in a revelatory manner with five of his arms, the Conjuror General continued, “Pockets of weakness are opening…. Look at these configurations. Here and here and… there! See how they fade?”

  Adramalik had to admit that the map of Adamantinarx that floated before them was, indeed, changing significantly. The intricate multilayered latticework of glyphs that represented individual buildings and streets and tunnels, even certain personages, seemed to blister and pop like the bubbles upon the surface of a shifting flow of magma. Some of Agaliarept’s many mouths made sucking noises of pleasure, sounds that seemed appropriate for the bursting of the glyphs, as the carefully constructed defenses mutated, affording him perceived opportunities that had not been there before.

  “We should inform the Prince if the palace itself begins to degrade,” said Adramalik. Most of the activity, for the moment, involved what appeared to be domiciles and storehouses. “I am now convinced she is somewhere within it and not being kept outside its walls as a foil. The Prince’s Hand has searched the city ceaselessly and come away with nothing.”

  Agaliarept appeared not to be listening but, instead, to be in some kind of trance state, his finer manipulators dexterously separating and plucking away at the newly configured glyphs, his minds digging, prying, calculating. Adramalik stepped back as disinterested portions of the Conjuror began to peel away and fall off, chittering and fading away in the darkness of the chamber, setting about on other unknown tasks. Seeing them, he moved farther away and then left the Conjuring Chamber altogether, careful to observe whether the smaller parts of Agaliarept were on their own mission. He knew he must hurry.

  A smirk twisted across his face; he would not wait to tell his Prince as he had advised Agaliarept. Beelzebub would be pleased with the news, and he very much wanted to be the bearer of it; he did not want to risk lessening his punishment by diluting the message. Sargatanas’ strategy should have been predictable, he thought reproachfully, that in his hour of need he would tap the only resource he had left to him—the souls—and that this would benefit the Prince. And, more important, himself.

  ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON

  When Eligor finally brought Hannibal out of his darkened chamber the soul found himself squinting at a very different Adamantinarx, a heavy blanket of dust hanging over the city, evidence of the ongoing demolition that was reshaping it. Supported by the Guard Captain, Hannibal walked weakly at first, trying to regain a sense of balance and poise that was hampered by his lingering pain and the loss of his arm. Mago was not far behind, and when Hannibal seemed comfortable enough to stand on his own, Eligor let go of the general and allowed his brother to offer his help. Looking at the soul’s uncomplicated sigil, Eligor admitted to himself that it would take some getting used to. He also had to acknowledge that Hannibal was more than deserving of the honor.

  Like Sargatanas, Eligor had grown to admire the resourceful soul. Hannibal, Eligor had learned in speaking with Mago, was what souls regarded as a military man, born of what they thought of as nobility, and perhaps because of these factors he seemed unfazed by the company he now found himself in. Not the fact that he was among demons, not the reality that only a short time ago they had been his zealous wardens, not even the sheer comparative size of them—none of this seemed to impinge upon his ability to remain focused.

  Eligor kept a concerned eye on Hannibal as the trio descended toward the waiting armies. The Soul-General had elected to wear a heavy cloak that mostly concealed his asymmetrical shoulders and would probably continue to do so until his new arm was fully regrown. Despite his recent trials, he seemed strong and only stumbled once. He was silent as they traversed the Rule, taking in the changes that had been wrought in his absence. Groans and cries carried from distant quarters as structures came down, the sounds of Sargatanas’ city in agony.

  Nearly at the river’s edge, Eligor saw that in contrast to the city-center, here virtually no buildings were left standing; only those essential to the waging of war had withstood the tide of destruction. Adamantinarx’s demolition had progressed efficiently and, Eligor thought, somewhat ruthlessly. Walking through the palace had reminded him of its construction rather than any imminent razing, whereas the city’s aspect was one of pending morbidity. His dismay was profound. More than most, he understood Sargatanas’ pressing need, but Eligor was saddened by the wanton destruction of what he knew would surely take centuries to rebuild. Where buildings had stood there remained little but geometric depressions upon the ground. Only the massive internal gate remained, a smaller cousin of the cyclopean checkpoint gates that still ringed the city, a stark sight still attached to the adjacent walls but standing free of its once-plentiful surrounding buildings.

  The sound of trumpets and drums reached their ears as they crossed the Acheron’s largest bridge, the Kufa-vors Eophan, and Eligor lengthened his stride. The encampments were far enough away from the river not to be influenced by its sorrowful effects, and once they arrived at the encampments’ outskirts it took some time to negotiate the improvised streets that crisscrossed the military tent-city. The allied armies that had been promised by their lords and ambassadors had finally arriv
ed, and the Guard Captain knew there was no reason to linger another day. The time for his or any other demons’ doubts had vanished long ago, and now that the decision to attack Dis had been made by his lord, Eligor simply wanted to send his troops aloft.

  A small army of demons numbering, Eligor guessed, in the few thousands knelt over their sheathed swords in close ranks before a newly erected rostrum. As he ascended the steps toward Sargatanas and his generals, Eligor saw that those waiting before the rostrum were an assembly of ad of the lesser-ranked field commanders—Demons Minor mostly—who would lead the immense host into battle. Each army in itself was so large that it required its own major general and his staff to coordinate movements.

  Hannibal excused himself and moved to speak with Mago and the other gathered soul field marshals. He had much to work out with them, and once again Eligor admired Hannibal’s calm under such pressure.

  As Eligor approached, he saw the pale form of Sargatanas with Put Satanachia—a five-pointed starburst of flame above his head—standing just to one side. The two were so similar in their height and bearing, the stamp of their rank, Eligor knew, but Sargatanas’ intensity was nothing at all like Satanachia’s more open nature, the latter’s personality more closely resembling Valefar’s. Certainly, Eligor realized with self-reproach, Sargatanas had changed within most recent memory, gone from being more composed to being more closed, a creature of deeper introspection. Such were the enormous pressures he had created for himself; such was the burden of the decision he had made. But even sympathetic to that, Eligor had to admit that he missed the Sargatanas of old, the attentive mentor of millennia past.

  Eligor saw Satanachia’s Glyph-caster, the flamboyant Demon Major Azazel, in deep conversation with the two principal demons. Like most Glyph-casters, he was an especially ornate demon, crested and frilled in thin spines and stretchy membranes and like Eligor hued a brilliant scarlet. Until Satanachia’s arrival, Sargatanas had never used a Glyph-caster, choosing to issue orders himself upon the field, but given the vast size of this army he had bowed to his new ally when he had offered him the specialized and exalted talents of Azazel. Eligor, knowing the value of such a generous gift, was more than content to defer some of the responsibilities of messenger in favor of one so well equipped.