God's Demon

by Wayne Barlowe

  Satanachia acknowledged him with a lifted hand as he stepped closer. All three saluted in response and then turned to look out at the dark swath of sigil-crowned officer demons.

  Upon a signal from Sargatanas, Azazel flared to life, covering his body in a hundred Demon Majors’ sigils and raising his new lord’s in a fiery vertical column high above him. The newly reinforced, newly dubbed Second Army of the Ascension, massed behind their commanders, rose thunderously as one and lit their countless unit-glyphs. Eligor’s eyes widened at the sheer number of them, at the legions nearly beyond count that extended into the darkness of the night.

  “Was there ever so magnificent a sight in Hell… or the Above, for that matter?” Satanachia remarked.

  “It is impressive,” agreed Sargatanas.

  “Impressive? This,” Satanachia said, waving his hand at the expanse of soldiers, “this is power beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. Only the Fly commands numbers like these. I envy you, Sargatanas, envy you because I did not think to do this myself millennia ago.” He paused, smiled to himself, and said, “You know, I actually think Lucifer would approve.”

  “Do you?” Sargatanas’ voice lowered, but Eligor was close enough to hear him nonetheless. “The idea of going against his delegated proxy… it felt as if I were going against him. I am still his loyal warrior no matter where he is.”

  “As am I, old friend,” Satanachia said with conviction. “I would not have joined you in this if I had thought otherwise.”

  Sargatanas turned and took in what was left of his city. His eyes settled, Eligor saw, in the direction of the enormous fire-topped statue of himself. Now, with so many varied structures no longer standing, it, as well as all of the other giant statues that dotted Adamantinarx, stood out oddly, seeming somehow naked without their covering of buildings.

  “Amazing how this all could have started because of the souls,” he said almost to himself.

  “The War in Heaven?”

  “And the War in Hell.”

  “They are ceaselessly difficult.” Satanachia stared at the fields where the souls waited. “I think they have much to answer for.”

  “Yes, and so do we regarding them,” Sargatanas said. “When Lucifer rebelled I do not think there was one among the Seraphim who dreamt that we would find ourselves so enthusiastically meting out their punishment.”

  Sargatanas grew silent. Was he thinking of the past, of the life from which he was trying so hard to extricate himself, of his own treatment of the souls—of Lilith? Eligor could not guess.

  Sargatanas turned abruptly and said to Azazel, “Your first order, Glyph-caster: we march at Algol’s zenith.”

  Azazel bowed ceremoniously and immediately the sigils that hovered inches above his body began to transform, each quickly growing an attached order-glyph, which peeled away from him and sped into the night air.

  “That is not too long from now,” Satanachia said, looking at the angry star.

  “My Conjuring of Concealment was successful…. Eligor’s Flying Guard, as well as your own, will not be visible to the Fly or his defensive glyphs. At least not for the initial assault over Dis.”

  Eligor’s head turned at that and he caught Sargatanas’ knowing grin. He had been foolish to think that he could eavesdrop if his lord had wanted it otherwise. And Eligor felt privileged to know that it did not trouble Sargatanas that he had heard.

  “There is little for me to do now other than roam the empty halls of my palace,” Sargatanas went on with a disingenuous sigh.

  “Oh, the tragic demon!” said Satanachia gravely.

  Sargatanas’ grin broadened. It was, Eligor realized, an exchange such as his lord would have had with Valefar, and it gladdened him. It seemed that, now that the weighty decisions had been made and the day of departure was now upon them, Sargatanas had reverted to his former self. None but Satanachia—or Valefar himself—could have brought him back.

  The demons turned as one as a low, incongruous peal of laughter came from the souls surrounding Hannibal, who clapped his only hand upon the back of one of his generals. Hannibal looked past his staff and saw the demons’ reaction and, as if to make amends, without hesitation knelt and withdrew his sword and saluted. The gesture was taken up by each of his generals. In answer, the demons spontaneously unsheathed their own weapons and saluted, eliciting a deafening roar of approval from the army at their feet. It was an unrehearsed moment, a moment of undeniable potency, precipitated by the Soul-General, and Eligor immediately recognized its value. It was the kind of moment every general dreamt of.

  “Hannibal is an inspired general,” Eligor heard Satanachia say as the din died down. He sheathed his sword. “You chose him well.”

  “I did not choose him; he chose me. With Lilith’s help. And you are right. He leads the souls as if this were his own rebellion.”

  Satanachia looked again toward where the still-clamoring, sigil-less soul army stood.

  “What will become of them?”

  “Truly, Satanachia, I do not know. Their fate is no clearer than my own. And they know it.”

  “Given that, their bravery is commendable.”

  “Their bravery is a measure of their hope and desperation,” Sargatanas said. “Again, not unlike my own.”

  “And what of Lilith’s future?”

  “Lilith is more than capable of deciding that for herself. It is what she wants more than anything.”

  “Not more than you.”

  Sargatanas took a deep breath and Eligor saw his head tilt skyward, his eyes reach into the clouds above.

  * * * * *

  Hannibal found it odd that he could feel so at peace with Hell that he could laugh and relax with his troops and even look forward to the battle ahead. It was almost as if the dark clouds had parted and the golden sun of his life was shining upon him, not the cold, dispassionate rays of Algol’s bloodshot disk. Whatever had caused his shift in mood, it barely troubled him; he had come so far that even if he was destroyed attacking Dis, his would be a name demon and soul alike would remember. It was more than he could ever have hoped for and, in the end, all that he had truly received in his life.

  Breaking away from his staff, he descended from the rostrum and walked alone amidst the quiet, orderly lines of soul infantry, watching as they touched weapons, passing simple spell-glyphs the demons had given them from one to another. Traced in every fiery hue imaginable, the glyphs would make their swords and pikes and axes only fractionally more powerful, but, he thought, what little advantage they could take from their former masters could make the difference. When they looked up at him passing, seeing his blue sigil for the first time, they bowed their heads in respectful, silent salute. They were tarred with the brush of evil, many much worse than himself, but they would fight, whatever their reasons, for him and the mere chance of redemption, and that was enough for him.

  Eventually growing tired, he returned to Mago and the other generals, all of whom were huddled and asleep, trying to get as much rest as possible before the long march. As Hannibal settled in and pulled his heavy cloak around him, he looked out toward Adamantinarx, the city he, like all of the other souls, had helped build, and saw a beauty there that he had never seen before. Ruddy from the light of the ascending star, its few remaining buildings, mostly huddled on the central mount, were, he realized, aesthetic wonders. Even though the streets were now devoid of the smaller dwellings and mostly barren of the larger edifices, he could see the city, in his mind’s eye, for what it had been—a noble, and some might say naive, attempt by Sargatanas to bring something of Heaven to Hell. The dark grandeur of it had been unlike anything that had ever existed, and Hannibal was saddened by its precipitous razing. The great and gleaming domed palace, intact only from the outside, rose through the enveloping shroud of dust, the broken heart of a stricken city. And within it, somewhere well inside its hollowed interior, he knew Sargatanas and Lilith abided. For now.

  Hannibal’s lids grew heavy and he slipped into
his Tophet dream again. Only now, as he descended deeper and deeper into the familiar smoke-filled world of his great guilt, it seemed, as he faded away, that he saw himself through new, more accepting eyes. Less pained eyes. And very dimly, though he could not question why, he felt grateful that, after so much time, he could be at peace with himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DIS

  The arrival of Lucifuge Rofocale went, as far as Adramalik could tell, unheralded. As important a figure as he was, he and his Ice Legions entered the First City with little fanfare. The Prime Minister was certain that Lucifuge, as an old ally of the Prince and near equal in abilities, would have been welcomed in a more obvious fashion, but he had been instructed to meet the demon himself at the gate and bring him up to Beelzebub.

  Lucifuge was an unusually mannered and proper demon, as rigid in his behavior as he was in his overly elaborate appearance. Glowing blue from his exclusive diet of a rare flying Abyssal’s flesh, he was extremely conscious of every detail of his form, manifesting a staggering array of low horns and trailing finlets and fiery tendrils. Around him orbited a dozen small abstract objects of dark and unknown purpose. Having retreated to the frigid region surrounding the Pit and viewing himself as its guardian, he seemed to have become as cold as the black fire, ice, and frozen brick of his capital, Pygon Az. His arrogance was as legendary as his reclusiveness. Barely acknowledging Adramalik, Lucifuge dismounted his huge Shuffler, leaving his army under his field marshal Uricus’ command as it entered Dis, and merely jerked his head to indicate he wanted his audience with the Prince.

  The ascent into the uppermost levels of the Keep was achieved without a word passing between them. Adramalik, uncomfortable with the silence, could feel the irritation that the Demon Major exuded, irritation, he imagined, at being wrenched from his isolated wards to support the Prince against an upstart demon. The relative warmth and humidity of the Keep’s bowels must have made the journey upward unpleasant for Lucifuge, used to the cold, and this alone was solace for Adramalik. And now that his punishment was over, thanks to his carefully calculated tidings, nothing could trouble him. For hours they climbed the myriad stairs and wended their way through the convoluted maze of tunnel-corridors until they finally arrived at the Rotunda. Adramalik hung back as the door sphinctered open, allowing Lucifuge his moment, ostensibly as a sign of respect.

  The ubiquitous buzzing was barely audible above the sighing of the hanging skins. Beelzebub, distant atop his carrion throne, was feeding as Lucifuge approached, and Adramalik thought, only briefly, to dissuade Lucifuge from interrupting him, but the part of him that delighted in seeing his fellow demons in discomfort was curious about the Prince’s reaction. And so as Lucifuge strode stiffly toward the throne, Adramalik held his breath, the unpredictability of his master both terrifying and exhilarating.

  As always, Husk Faraii sat at his Prince’s feet and the Prime Minister took little notice of him; he neither spoke nor moved in all of his past audiences, and there was no reason to expect more of him. He looked more emaciated than ever, and the bluish gray of his face had visibly blackened around its flaking plates’ edges. Not surprisingly, the Baron was not faring well on his newfound diet of leavings from the throne.

  When he and Lucifuge drew near, Adramalik noticed that what had appeared to be the Prince’s fully round torso was, in fact, only half-finished, its shoulder and left arm completely missing. The other half had dissolved into a thick layer of flies that contentedly rasped at the large, unidentifiable chunk of offal that lay in its lap. The partial body of Beelzebub turned disconcertingly toward them.

  “Prince-in-Exile Lucifuge,” he buzzed, the trace of mockery unmistakable, “how was your journey?”

  “My journey was long and tiresome, Beelzebub. And,” he added, “disturbingly necessary.”

  “It has been a long time since you retreated to your frozen wards, an equally long time since you visited us here in Dis.”

  “Retreated? No, ‘distanced myself’ would be more accurate. It is no secret between us that when Lucifer handed his scepter over to you I felt… slighted. What he was thinking I cannot guess, but we are now bearing witness to the consequences of that ill-chosen act.”

  Adramalik could not believe Lucifuge’s brevity. No one spoke to the Prince with such candor, and suddenly Adramalik could feel the swirling of some momentous event about to take place. Lucifuge would be an invaluable ally; few so far had answered Beelzebub’s call. But, even so, there were limits to his tolerance.

  “Perhaps if I had stayed by your side as Lucifer had wanted…,” Lucifuge continued. “Ah, but that was never really a possibility, was it?”

  The flies stirred for a moment and then settled back onto the glistening meat.

  “So, what is it I hear about our old friend Sargatanas? I understand he is no longer happy here in Hell. Why not simply let him see if he can find a way to go?”

  “Because free will has no place in Hell. Not for him or anyone else who might be inspired by him.”

  “You never questioned Lucifer’s free will.”

  “Sargatanas is not Lucifer.”

  “Nor are you. Do we have Lucifer’s Seal on this? According to the First Infernal Bull, ‘no Demon Major may set out against another with the express goal of destroying that Demon Major himself.’”

  “We do not need it. The Heretic Sargatanas is coming here.”

  “Then, if you succeed in fending him off, he can be taken prisoner and exiled. Not destroyed. Only Lucifer’s Seal can mandate that. As I just said, no Demon—”

  “I am not a Demon Major.”

  “But I am.”

  “You, Rofocale, are out of touch with the pulse of Hell. And, simply put, I need your legions. If you agree, you may have half of the Heretic’s wards when this is over.”

  “You may have the twenty Ice Legions that I brought with me and no more,” Lucifuge said plainly. “And I will remain in command. I will not have any of your generals determining the fate of my legions.”

  The flies took wing with an agitated whirring and began to stream down toward Adramalik and Lucifuge. The Prime Minister swallowed hard.

  “You will have your command,” said Beelzebub quietly. “Or so it will seem.”

  Without a word and with incredible speed, Husk Faraii leaped up and, oblivious to the myriad horns that covered Lucifuge’s glowing body, grasped him around the arms and torso so tightly that for a moment the shocked demon did not even struggle. Lucifuge’s stunned immobility instantly turned to anger and then desperation as he realized that he could not move even if he chose to. The flies formed an ominous circle over his head and dropped down, creating a black, roiling collar around his neck.

  Adramalik’s eyes widened as a protective series of glyphs rose above the demon only to be easily dissipated by Beelzebub’s own glyphs. Lucifuge’s head began to transform involuntarily, his rage—the only visible constant—etched in every incarnation. But that anger was short-lived when it was suddenly replaced by an expression of agony as the yoke of flies began to gnaw down into his shoulders, rasping apart the layered plates of bones to burrow deep into the underlying flesh. An instant later the life went out of his eyes and something twisted inside the demon’s torso.

  Adramalik watched the head slowly cant to one side, mouth still writhing, and then tumble to the floor with a loud splash. And with the Husk still holding the shaking torso upright, a new head began to appear, forming quickly up from the ragged neck and made of nulling dies. When, with a glyph cast by Beelzebub, its thousand parts had changed texture and color and was completed, it was indistinguishable from the original. The head blinked spasmodically and then turned to look at its master. To anyone who might have seen him, Lucifuge had entered the Rotunda and exited it a short while later.

  “Prime Minister,” Beelzebub said. He had re-formed, but now his left forearm, already minus its hand, was somewhat shorter. “Go with him back to his legions and see to it that his field marshal u
nderstands the need to have all of the remaining Ice Legions dispatched to Dis immediately. It would arouse less suspicion if he sends his own courier.”

  Husk Faraii let go of his captive and resumed his place squatting at the foot of the throne. Jerkily he reached for the head of Lucifuge, which lay facedown in a puddle of blood.

  Adramalik bowed, fear making his legs stiff. “Yes, my Prince.”

  Head still bowed, Adramalik began to move away, but from the corner of his eye he saw Husk Faraii pull a stubborn piece of flesh from inside the demon’s skull, put it in his mouth, and begin to slowly chew.

  Revolted, Adramalik turned away and, followed by what had once been Lucifuge Rofocale, exited the Rotunda to begin the long descent through the Keep to the legions waiting outside. As much as Adramalik had enjoyed the predicament that Lucifuge had found himself in, as much as he felt the demon had as much as precipitated his own demise, the episode had begun a cascade of thoughts that had only one conclusion: Beelzebub was desperate and Sargatanas, wily, powerful opponent that he was, might actually destroy him.

  * * * * *

  Mulciber’s Tower no longer bore the many-pointed and tiered spire with which it had originally been built. Piercing the Keep’s mantle directly in its center, the tower’s spire had been demolished to afford Architect General Mulciber, and anyone who chose to make the difficult ascent, an incredible view of the shadowed city. But Adramalik had not taken the time to climb the tower to admire the city; there was more of Beelzebub’s bidding to do before Sargatanas arrived at the seven gates of Dis. After fulfilling his mission with Lucifuge’s unsuspecting field marshal, Adramalik had had to make the lengthy ascent through the Keep yet again. Had there not been a sudden gale coming almost portentously from the direction of Sargatanas’ wards, he would have taken wing to rise to the tower’s top, avoiding altogether the massive structure’s labyrinth-like halls, but it was not to be.