Adramalik had rarely visited the Architect General, had rarely had any need of his services since the founding of the capital so many eons ago. And even then Adramalik’s needs had only been to convey those requirements of the Knights and their Order Priory.
Sequestered by choice in his tower atop the Keep, Mulciber was no longer recognizable as one of the Fallen. So thoroughly had the demon given himself over to his ever-growing masterwork that eventually he had decided to become one with it, to meld with the thick, phallic tower, to integrate his own body into the supine archiorganism that was Dis.
The Prime Minister had, during his infrequent visits, seen the slow transformation over the millennia and now, uncertain as to the demon’s current state, strained to locate Mulciber amidst the eccentric brickwork of the open turret-top. If the architecture of Dis could be accused of anything, it was not of being overly ornate, however, Mulciber had been uncharacteristically self-indulgent in his treatment of his own abode. Perhaps, Adramalik thought, it said something deeper about the demon, about his self-image, but he had always been disinclined to pursue the question. Using the demon’s sigil as a guide, Adramalik walked around the dozen or so raised brick pedestals that sprouted from the floor, many providing platforms for the demon’s self-eviscerated organs, which had been married to thick arteries and in turn joined with the Keep’s own organs. Squinting through the particle-laden wind and carefully avoiding the fleshy conduits that led down into the Keep, Adramalik threaded his way toward an assemblage of bricks, heavily carved and filled with niches within which, like reliquaries, were small remnants of Mulciber’s empty demonic body. Were it not for the floating sigil, Adramalik might have missed Mulciber altogether; only a flattened face remained barely emerging from a tall freestanding column, a column dotted with brilliant yellow eyes that enabled the architect to view his creation around and beneath him.
“Chancellor General Adramalik,” said Mulciber, his voice dry and hollow, like two stones rubbing together.
“Prime Minister.”
“I am so out of touch up here. Forgive me.”
Adramalik waved a hand dismissively.
“Architect General, I am here on behalf of the Prince. He is in need of your talents. A wall needs to be built.”
“What kind of a wall?”
“A wall to protect your Prince.”
“Does our Prince need a wall to protect him?”
“You do not know?”
Mulciber closed some of his many eyes.
“It is quiet up here, Adramalik. Quiet and removed.”
Adramalik pivoted and took in the sprawling panorama. The wind had blown away the last tatters of clouds and he was able to see quite far, almost to the horizon. The sky, red from Algol’s slow rising, brushed the livid rooftops below, making the city look as if it had been daubed with blood.
“All of this… all of this is about to change, Mulciber. Whether you know it or not.”
“I am not really sure I care.”
Adramalik considered this. Why should Mulciber care whom he built for? Without loyalty, there really was no true incentive. Or was there?
“How would you like to spend whatever of Eternity is left in the Pit, Mulciber? Away from all of this. Forever. Do you suppose Abaddon has any need of your services?”
Mulciber was unreadable in his expression, but his silence spoke for itself.
“What does the Fly need?”
“A little more respect, Mulciber.” Adramalik enjoyed negotiating from strength with Demons Major.
“What does the Prince need of me?”
“The Prince, as I said before, requires a wall… a wall around the Keep so imposing and featureless that it will prevent the Heretic from entering. My spies in Adamantinarx tell me he is marshaling a vast army the size of which has never been seen in Hell. This Keep and the Prince’s palace are clearly his goals.”
“And how much time do I have to build this ‘imposing and featureless’ wall?”
“A week. Perhaps two. No more.”
Mulciber’s eyes widened.
“Just where am I to get the raw materials for such a project? As impossible as it is.”
“You have at your disposal every soul in the capital. Every brick in every building, every paving-soul, every single soul who walks the streets of Dis… they are all to be used either to build it or to be built into it. All the Maws and Demolishers in the armies of Dis are at your disposal as well. After construction is completed you are expected to layer atop it the most potent of guardian-glyphs you can formulate.
“And one thing more, Mulciber. You are to supervise the construction yourself.”
“But look at me….”
Adramalik did not need to look at the pedestals and the walls where the demon’s body parts were strewn to know what he was asking. “Your first task clearly is to become ambulatory. I could not care less how well formed you turn out or how uncomfortable you will be. I—the Prince expects you to be present on the wall to deal with any problems, not up here, quiet and removed, as you put it.”
Mulciber’s eyes closed in resignation. Adramalik thought he saw small puffs of steam start to obscure them.
“As you will, Prime Minister.”
Adramalik turned and left Mulciber, content in the knowledge that the one demon in Hell who had found relative peace was about to become the busiest.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE FIELDS OF ADAMANTINARX
Algol had finally risen.
The din of ten thousand war trumpets and drums, of uncounted sigils flaring to light, of a million impatient, armored bodies rising to their feet, was beyond anything in war Hannibal had known or could have imagined. The ground beneath his feet trembled in response and he clenched his toes just to remain standing. He knew that if he had had a heart it would have been thundering in his chest.
Algol had climbed to its zenith and with it the great Second Army of the Ascension had taken up arms to begin its long march toward Dis. As they left their front ranks to join Satanachia for the beginning of the march, Hannibal and Mago exchanged grins, but each knew what was in the other’s mind: would they ever see Adamantinarx again? The Soul-General looked behind him toward the city and saw, still standing on the distant rostrum, the white form of Sargatanas and the less distinct shapes of Eligor and all of the others who were to stay behind until their moment came.
There had been no grand speeches, no ceremonious invocations, nothing in the host’s departure that could be construed as anything but necessary. What had been said in the past was enough for the present.
The briefing had been short and direct, with Sargatanas and Satanachia doing most of the talking. The assault on Dis was to be something of a ruse, as Hannibal understood it. The massive ground attack would ultimately prove to be a diversion from the more covert aerial attack to follow. Eligor and Satanachia’s Flying Corps commander, Barbatos, would combine their forces and train until they were sent to Dis. The generals under Satanachia’s command had been given their orders and departed for the field, leaving the two Demons Major and the Soul-General to linger with Sargatanas.
Walking slowly before each of them, Sargatanas had said, “Demons, Hannibal, I cannot tell you what we will find waiting for us in Dis or how this will come out. But I can tell you that even though we live in shadow, we fight for light. Go now, and spread that light where none has ever shone!”
Each of them had bowed and then returned to the head of the waiting army. When Hannibal found his brother he remained silent for some time, his mind swimming with the tactics and possibilities of the impending siege. His and the other ground armies, no matter how huge, were effectively a delaying force. And that meant staggering attrition. From what he knew of the Prince and his spies, the armies of Dis would know well in advance of the size and nature of the opposing legions. Little was known in Adamantinarx of the demons who might have allied with the Fly. But such was the nature of war, and after explaining what he knew of
Sargatanas’ plan to Mago, he felt somehow better. Talking it through with his brother, as he had before so many campaigns so long ago, relaxed him for the time being. But he knew, as their host drew near Dis, his apprehensions would surface anew. Some said it was a sign of a good general to fret; soldiers should not have to worry, only fight. With his world of experience, he agreed.
Attendants brought up Gaha, and he had difficulty mounting the Abyssal. He could not have been more impatient for his new arm to grow in but knew that it would not be in time for the upcoming battle. He smiled inwardly; he certainly did not need more incentives to want to survive. Once he was in the saddle he swung around and made for Put Satanachia’s position. The beast was light on its feet and moved quickly across the crowded field, never misstepping. Hannibal passed rank upon rank of troops, both demon and soul, and even he, accustomed as he was to multicultural mercenary armies, was impressed with their variety. The demons that had arrived from every corner of Hell, formed and tempered and improved in the crucibles of their unending border-wars, were equipped with a dizzying array of weapons. His gaze shifted from demons who bore everything from integrated axes, maces, halberds of every shape, and pikes to more exotic legionaries from distant realms whose arms were the separated blades of great scissors or ended in huge, sharp-toothed, gaping mouths or giant claws. There seemed to be no restrictions on the ingenuity that the demons had exercised in growing implements to cleave, cut, rend, and smash one another. Such was the way of Hell; any exploitable advantage over neighboring demons could prove decisive upon the battlefield and garner a ward or two from a rival. The souls, not benefiting from the creative energies of their masters, had been equipped as best as the demons could manage with an abundance of improvised weaponry. Many, he saw, wielded the sawn-off weapons of demons who had fallen on both sides in the last battle while the rest gripped crude, but effective, weapons that had been hastily manufactured in Adamantinarx before the Forges themselves had been dismantled.
Satanachia, resplendent in his newly formed opalescent armor and standing at the very tip of the gathered legions, was waiting for him. Flattered, Hannibal realized that it was a measure of their esteem for him that the demon second in prestige to his lord would only give the signal to advance when he was present. As the enormous blue glyph, visible for many hundreds of spans, billowed up into the ashen sky Hannibal felt the vortex of fate pulling him toward Hell’s capital. As the army slowly surged forward, uncertainty flooded his mind. Whichever way the battle went, the outcome in Dis would prove to be the end of the rebellion. Of one thing he was certain: Sargatanas would not sell himself cheaply and, even if the Fly somehow managed to survive, the shape of Hell would forever be changed.
The wind whipped fiercely over Eligor’s straining body, snapping at his folded wings, as he clung, one-handed, to the gently rounded exterior of Sargatanas’ dome. The heavy, bifurcated prongs of Eligor’s newly issued climbing-staff were firmly lodged in the crack between two massive roofing stones and had, regrettably, damaged the surface where they had been inserted. He had been dismayed when Sargatanas had outlined his planned training regimen, knowing that the final exercise was going to do extensive damage to the once-majestic dome. But Adamantinarx was no longer the city it had been, and the Captain was gradually growing accustomed to the unfortunate changes the city was undergoing.
Looking through the shifting clouds at the gray curve of the dome, Eligor saw the generalized shapes of his dying troops, hammers in hand, begin the mock-assault for the tenth time. They, like Barbatos and his flyers performing the same exercise on the dome’s opposite side, would only be ordered to actually strike the building when their tactical maneuverings were satisfactory, an achievement that Eligor guessed would be about a week hence. While the breaching of Sargatanas’ dome would only be executed once, for obvious structural reasons, the Guard Captain wanted to feel completely confident that the hundreds of flyers were able to move about comfortably in a high wind on a curved and polished surface. He saw the other flyers trying to hover above where the giant hole would be opened, and even as he watched, chaos erupted as a particularly strong gust buffeted them and sent hundreds of them crashing into one another. And then, to worsen matters, Eligor felt a few drops of blood hit him and soon a steady light rain began to fall, spattering the already treacherously smooth dome, slickening it dangerously. Truly, he thought, this was a good and difficult test. Within moments the rain had streaked the dome shiny and red and, almost mesmerized, he watched myriad thin rivulets winding their way like fast, thick worms downward. He saw how his demons scrabbled and slipped and suddenly one lost his handhold and slid down into another and then another and, before he could warn them, more than twenty of the flyers were tumbling, trying to disentangle from one another and open their wings. But, to his mixed disappointment and anger, they did not succeed and plunged headlong to their destruction upon the cloud-shrouded pavement far below. A good and difficult test indeed, Eligor reflected.
He watched the remainder of the exercise with a decidedly disagreeable attitude. The planning and subsequent training for the assault on the Fly’s palace was proving to be about as difficult as Eligor had envisioned; he had known all along that the whims of Hell’s weather would play havoc with any aerial assaults. Finally the thousand-odd demons were in their stations, some bearing hammers and focused on breaking through the stone, some ringing about where the hole would be smashed, and the remainder, lances in hand, hovering as best as they could in formation above and awaiting a command to drop through into the palace beneath. A dense cloud passed in front of him and, for a few moments, he could only see the tiny lights of their unit-glyphs through the patchy haze. He held them there for some time; it would be good for them to wait, to lock into their minds their respective roles. Then, satisfied only that they had finally reached the exercise’s end, he raised his free hand and issued the command to withdraw and return to their camps. He saw his glyph circle the dome once and vanish and then watched the blood-wet demons break away and drop into the clouds.
Eligor sent a signal to Barbatos at the opposite side of the dome and wondered if his demons had fared any better. He unhooked himself from the dome and spread his wings, descending in a slow, controlled drop through the reddish curtain of clouds. When his feet scraped the flagstones of the plaza it was just in time to see the last of his Flying Guard entering their barracks. And he also saw the crumpled forms of three of his demons lying in twisted piles, their broken wings reaching up like slender fingers. Already he could hear the creaking wheels of an approaching bone-cart sent to remove them.
Limbs stiff and trembling from the exercise, Eligor made his way up the palace stairs and entered the empty entrance hall. Usually, after newcomers entered the palace from a downpour, there would have been attendants ready and waiting to towel them down, but now there was no such courtesy. Instead the metallic tang of the blood and the uncomfortable feeling of it drying upon him only heightened his growing sense that all was not well. When he was back in his chambers he would have to spend much time cleaning himself. Only the distilled and still-irritating saline waters of the Acheron would remove the stain, a ritual that, considering his exhaustion, he did not look forward to.
For some reason only a relative few of the palace’s many braziers were lit, and the shadowed areas that Eligor passed through seemed to him like ominous lakes of darkness. Trudging through the halls, past the infrequent distracted functionary or brick-laden worker, Eligor noted again with now-familiar sadness that the entire geography of the immense building had been altered. The mandated removal of any and all soul-bricks, a process that was still under way, had caused the complete rearrangement and, in some cases, structural weakening of the interior, leaving great holes, collapsed ceilings, or crudely supported walls. The dust of deconstruction was everywhere. And more than once he saw it kicked up by winds that, in the past, would never have been possible in the building when its integrity had been sound.
But ev
en with conditions as they were, the palace retained some echoes of its grandeur, and the closer to its Audience Chamber he walked the more the great building resembled its former self. On his way to the stairs leading to his chambers, he peered through the columns of the arcade into the great space beyond and looked to the top of the pyramidal dais half-expecting to see Sargatanas seated on his throne. But only the shadows and emptiness greeted him. Algol’s beam, almost always visible, was absent, occluded by the heavy weather above—something that he tried hard not to view as an omen. He imagined that Sargatanas was in his Shrine or his chambers, perhaps with Lilith. It was a thought that only served to deepen Eligor’s melancholia; their time together, whether his lord got his wish or was destroyed trying, was drawing to a close.
And then the realization hit him like a hammer-blow. He understood, for the first time, just how much he would miss Sargatanas. Since the rebellion had begun every act, every word, had been about Beelzebub, his defenses, his armies, his cities, his tactics. Eligor had been so preoccupied with his office that he had not really had a moment to envision his world without his lord. Sargatanas had been a mentor and a paragon, a focal point and a guide, and now that Eligor saw a glimpse of what it might be like, of the emptiness he would feel, he did not like it.
He continued to his chambers, up the long, curving staircase and down the wide hall, past Valefar’s sealed chambers and then to his own. As he entered and lit his braziers with a cast flurry of glyphs, he questioned if Sargatanas’ vision was worth all of the incredible changes that had been wrought upon Hell. If the rebellion did not succeed would it have been the greatest act of selfishness imaginable to have plunged them all into this war? The question hung in his mind as he dipped a soft capillary-knot from the Wastes in the water and began to sponge himself as best as he could. The dull burn of the Acheron upon his exposed flesh and bone almost felt like welcome penance for the guilt he felt in doubting Sargatanas.
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