Fearing for his lord, Eligor felt his breath catch in his throat. He could not see whether Sargatanas was speaking to Semjaza or simply showing himself, allowing the sightless Watcher to become aware of him. Whatever the case, the effect was immediate and startling. Semjaza reared backward as if it had been struck, fear unmistakable upon its face. The Watcher remembers its old captors! It hears the language of the Above and the sizzle of the flaming sword and is afraid!
A roar of outraged buzzing rent the air and Beelzebub ascended, spreading and engulfing Sargatanas within himself. In the briefest instant Eligor saw his lord transformed from a thing of potent beauty to a figure ablaze in the center of a fiery maelstrom of flies. Eligor saw, too, the layer of glyph-mail eaten away and the flies beginning to penetrate the white armor. Without thinking, Eligor found himself in a steep dive heading directly toward Sargatanas. But as Eligor drew near and the flaming green flies pulled away, their lethal work done, he saw that there was nothing that could undo the damage that had been inflicted upon the demon. Barely able to stay aloft, Sargatanas began a long, slow descent and would have plunged into the smoke-filled darkness of the open floor below had Eligor not caught him.
As he dragged his lord away from the great hole, Eligor looked up and saw Semjaza, guided by the buzzing, moving purposefully toward the coalescing figure of the Fly. The Watcher said something in its own tongue, a language Eligor was unfamiliar with, and, opening its mouth, began to inhale deeply. The Fly tried to pull away, but it was in vain. An uncontrollable, continuous stream of blazing flies was pulled from the shifting form of the Prince and began to flow into the Watcher’s mouth, sucked into its glowing throat. The being that was Beelzebub began to waver and fade and Eligor heard a terrible scream emanate from the shredding cloud of flies. It lingered and echoed in his ears even after the Watcher had finished devouring the last of the Prince of Hell. And Eligor would never be sure, but it sounded to him as if that final, anguished cry was the name “Lilith.”
Seeing their master gone, the remainder of the Fly’s troops broke and ran, making their way as best they could over the shattered floor. Most met their destruction at the end of a lance.
Cradling his lord, Eligor landed with the help of Metaphrax, who, following the Guard Captain, had endeavored to save Sargatanas. The two Demons Minor laid him upon a broken plinth that rose from the rubble and the fallen skins and then turned as one when they heard the Watcher suddenly gather itself and shoot up toward the ceiling. Without losing a wing beat, Semjaza shattered the thick dome-tiles and, amidst a rain of debris, vanished with a final howl into the darkness of the Infernal night.
* * * * *
He did not care what the outcome of the duel between Beelzebub and Sargatanas was; either way, he knew his fate would, more than likely, be unpleasant, and so he backed away, followed and guarded by his Knights.
It had been easy, in the chaos of the Watcher’s arrival, to exit the Rotunda. Easier still, given the Knights’ prowess, to destroy the few demons who took notice and foolishly thought to pursue him.
Determining where my Knights and I will be well received, that will be a challenge. It will be hard to gauge the loyalties of so many far-flung Demons Major. Sargatanas’ call to arms left few of the undecided demons untapped. And he gained many silent allies. Surely, the farther out toward the Margins the more indifferent the demons will be and the greater my chances of success.
Adramalik had been nothing if not prudent. Hell was a place of ceaseless change, but one thing had been constant; Beelzebub had been capricious in his madness and, because of that, Adramalik’s preparations had been especially thorough. Millennia past, he had prepared for a time when he might have reason to flee Dis, but he had never envisioned it as a result of a successful rebellion. In a city as timeworn and fearful as the First City had been there were tunnels beyond count that, like a worm-chewed hide, pierced the ground and led away from the great citadel. He had investigated them himself and had chosen an obscure one that led circuitously into the Deep Warrens. There, in some ancient and unnamed lava cavern, he had imagined his Order could wait out any pursuers indefinitely. Only when he was certain they had not been trailed would they emerge and hurry through the Wastes to the Margins. After they escaped Dis he could be more leisurely deciding their destination. Perhaps, now that Rofocale was no longer its governor, he would head for Pygon Az; its proximity to the Pit was unquestionably worrisome to him but also useful. No one ventured voluntarily into those frozen wards.
His Knights were silent as they made their way through the series of anterooms that led to the now-shattered Rotunda. All were empty, but because he had already decided that he would destroy whoever crossed his path as he escaped, he carried his Order dagger. As he swept through the last small chamber, he saw a hunched figure approaching through the shadows. It was Agares and he seemed completely oblivious to the oncoming Knights.
Whether it was out of some weary sense of nostalgia or the odd feeling that destroying the ex-Prime Minister was beneath him, Adramalik hesitated. He lowered his blade and shook his head, a signal to Salabrus and the trailing Knights, and then, as he passed, looked more carefully at the twisted figure. Agares rolled his eyes up in surprise as he regarded the hurrying scarlet-clad demons, a strange smile crossing his ruined face. He was carrying a short, ash-dusted battle-cleaver in one hand and caressing a round, flat object in the other. Adramalik’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the ornate disk of the Architect-General Mulciber. He always had been the wall’s weakest brick.
Agares cackled as they passed; at this point Adramalik could not have cared less what happened to him. As far as Adramalik was concerned, Mulciber had been an intractable fool and received what he had deserved and, as for Agares, his tortured existence was punishment enough. For now, navigating the broken and burning Keep would more than occupy Adramalik’s and his Knights’ attention. Freedom would come eventually, he knew, but it would surely be only after much blood and ash had been spilled. That in itself was exciting, but the prospect of being away from Dis was even more exhilarating. Far from regarding this as a shameful retreat, Adramalik saw it as the new beginning he had hoped for so long.
The Keep heaved beneath his feet and he broke into a trot. Best to be free of the place, whatever was coming. Free of its miserable confines and, best of all, free of the Prince.
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Lilith opened her eyes in Heaven.
The sky above danced with fiery colors, pure and beautiful, before her heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes just as she had always imagined it. Turning her head, she saw fabulously attired hosts of Seraphim standing under golden and crimson trees and peering from lofting bridges into the sparkling azure streams below. Many were staring at her.
She felt a coating fading away from her skin, a layer of small objects that pattered on the surface she was lying upon. Without moving, she looked for Sargatanas to ask him how he could have brought her with him, but her vision was too blurred to distinguish the features of the unmoving Seraphim.
She raised herself up on one elbow and felt light-headed, nauseated. Looking down slowly, she saw her skin mottled bluish-gray, its texture puckered and dry. She closed her eyes and tried to remember but was rewarded only with still air and silence.
Where is the perfumed breeze? she wondered. Where are the musical calls of the chalkadri? And where, where is Sargatanas?
She felt the smooth, hard stone beneath her and then something else. Her shaky hands met with hundreds of tiny, brittle objects that crushed easily beneath her fingertips. When she opened her eyes again she knew.
Lilith felt as if she could not breathe; her lungs seemed congested and heavy. She dropped one clawed foot to the cold floor, then the other, and stood for a moment in the hope that being upright would clear her head. More of the tiny objects cascaded to the floor.
The Library… poor Zoray… the Fly’s emissary!
She remembered and then stiffened suddenly, her na
usea sharpened, and she heaved. A terrible stream of black, dead flies came up and corrupted the floor. She did not stop gagging for minutes; the thought of those unclean flies deep within her so repelled her that she welcomed the retching. When she was finally finished, the stained floor was like a sacrilege to her and she wiped her trembling mouth, feeling ashamed.
But who had brought her here? Who could have known about the Shrine? And she realized that of all the demons left in Adamantinarx only Andromalius knew of its existence. He had, undoubtedly, thought it to be the safest place in the city. It was a sad choice.
She turned and looked at the bier, covered in the small bodies of the flies that had nearly taken her life. She regarded them, studying their contorted, differing faces, a cold rage flaring to life deep within her. She reached out with clawed hands and scooped up two handfuls of the dead creatures, clenching them between her fingers until a dusting of their shells lay before her. From somewhere she heard herself screaming and saw herself grabbing handful after handful, crushing and pounding the brittle flies until not a single one was left intact. Those in her puddled vomit she flattened into black slime beneath her feet, sliding and slipping after each one, her screams of vengeance echoing throughout the Shrine.
When she had finally exhausted herself, panting and still trembling, she made her way from the center of the Shrine through its vestibule and out into the corridor beyond. Tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks, for she knew that, somehow, Sargatanas had prevailed and the Prince was no more.
DIS
It was a dying. Not the sudden, implosive destruction that was the all-too-common termination of life in Hell, but then again, Eligor thought, his had not been commonplace mortal wounds. Sargatanas was passing and there was nothing he or any demon could do to prevent it.
The Guard had landed, gathering at a respectful distance, while he and Metaphrax Argastos tried to make the stricken demon as comfortable as they could.
Eligor wished that Satanachia could have been there. He felt there was little comfort in the presence of Demons Minor to a fallen seraph. Eligor regretted not knowing whether Satanachia had even survived the Battle of the Keep, let alone where he was. And, he wondered, what has befallen Hannibal and his souls?
Eligor looked down at Sargatanas, whose bony lids were fluttering open. It was so difficult to see him as Beelzebub had left him. His entire body and head looked as if it had been drilled through in a thousand places and the once-resplendent white plates of his armor showed tiny cracks throughout. When he moved, Eligor could hear the faintest of crackling sounds as bits flaked off.
“Eligor… Eligor, it is over,” he said in a voice like the whispering ether of the Wastes. Small, almost invisible puffs of ash appeared with each word. “Did you ever… believe?”
“Always, my lord.”
Sargatanas lifted his hand to place it upon Eligor’s arm, but a piece fell away, shattering on the plinth. Metaphrax looked away, but Eligor gently took the once-heavy hand and placed it upon his own. The once-beautiful copper eyes were clouding over, patinated in a muddy greenish film.
How he loved his lord!
“It had to end like this,” Sargatanas said painfully. “Like Lucifer, I, too, was selfish. And like him I have failed my followers. I had hopes it would be otherwise. I had… hopes.”
“And dreams, my lord. You once said that it was time to do instead of dream. But I knew you never stopped dreaming. That is what this rebellion was all about. The Dream.”
“You did understand, Eligor.”
A thin dusting of ash was forming upon Sargatanas as the tiny cracks grew ever so slightly wider. His lids closed with each significant piece that fell away.
Eligor heard a soft, harmonic sound; he saw his lord’s chest barely rising and falling and knew it had not issued from him. He looked up at Metaphrax, who shrugged, and then heard the faintest of tinkling sounds, like distant bells. Eligor looked up past the shattered dome and at the sky beyond. He thought it looked odd, lighter and cooler in hue, and would, he thought, be seen as a sign, spoken of millennia hence in tales of Sargatanas’ Passing. It pleased him enormously.
He looked back at his lord, whose eyes were closed.
An earsplitting peal, as from some enormous bell, suddenly rang throughout the dome and simultaneously the floor around them rippled, sending rubble tumbling in all directions. A thick pillar of silent blue lightning streaked down from Above, piercing the clouds, entering the dome, and splitting into six separate, blazing columns directly before them. And then Eligor, whose breath had caught in his throat, inhaled and the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of blossoms filled his nostrils. It was a smell that he had nearly forgotten, and he closed his eyes, embracing it with every fiber of his soul. It was the celestial fragrance of Heaven.
The columns collapsed into six coruscating oval shapes, heavenly glyphs spinning within, and then, with a burst of purest, supernal light that momentarily blinded Eligor and the other demons, the shapes became luminous six-winged Seraphim of the First Order.
Sargatanas’ hand tightened upon Eligor’s arm.
One of the Seraphim separated himself from the rest and moved forward on barely wavering wings. His armor, fabulously chased and jeweled, shone fiercely with the Light and was almost painful to regard. Eligor looked at him and, at first, did not recognize him, so radiant was his face, but as the angel drew nearer Eligor almost leaped up, his joy was so profound.
Floating before him was Valefar.
“Is that you, Valefar?” Sargatanas said, his eyes closed again. Thin wisps of steam could just be seen at their corners.
“It is, my brother,” Valefar said, his voice musical again. “I am here for you.”
Sargatanas tried to raise his hand from Eligor’s arm but could not. “What is it like?”
“You will soon see. It is as it was before. So full of Light.”
“And the Throne…?”
“…can always forgive those who strive against Darkness. Whether it’s from outside or from within.”
Sargatanas’ chest rose and he sighed. Eligor saw him laboring to breathe, saw even more of him dissipating into ash and bone shards.
“But I’ve failed them all, Valefar.” His voice was almost inaudible. “Only Beelzebub is gone.”
“No, dear friend, no. You’ve given them hope where there was none. The Gates are now opened and it is for them to find their own way back.”
Valefar came toward the three demons. He knelt and took Sargatanas’ hand from Eligor’s arm. He leaned in close to Sargatanas’ ear.
“Rise, Sargatanas,” he whispered. “Rise and reawaken.”
Eligor felt a gathering wind begin to swirl around his lord and watched it focus upon and erode his body until only the vaguest shape of the Demon Major lay outlined on the cracked and windswept plinth. An enormous pulse of energy exploded from the plinth, expanding outward until it hit the far walls of the Rotunda. The countless skins that had hung for so long from the dome’s ceiling and were now draped about and under the rubble began to stir, to fill out and take shape as the souls they had once been.
The wind subsided. Of Sargatanas’ body very little was left. In its place a radiance formed and became a brilliance that, in turn, became substance, and Eligor saw Sargatanas as he had been from before the Fall. Gone were the trappings of Hell, the flesh-robes and bone-plates and flames above his head, replaced now by the supple, golden flesh, wings, and pearlescent raiments of Heaven. Slowly, the Seraph sat upright and rose to his feet. He bent and picked up his flaming sword.
“Leave it behind, Sargatanas,” Valefar said. “You will not be needing it.”
Sargatanas nodded, regarding the blade, and then held it out to Eligor. The demon took it and held it closely, reverently. He dropped to one knee and Sargatanas put his hand on Eligor’s shoulder.
“Follow me, Eligor. Heaven will shine brighter for your presence.”
“I will, my lord. I promise.”
Sargatanas turned away and Eligor heard Valefar say to him, “Come, my friend; it is time to go home.”
One by one, the seven Seraphim extended their wings and launched themselves into the air. Before they reached halfway to the dome’s broken opening they had each flared into a dazzling concentration of light and, like wayward stars returning to the firmament, shot up through the clouds.
Clutching the sword, Eligor stared up into the dark sky of Hell for some time, waiting until the lambency of his lord’s passage had faded. But, to Eligor’s amazement, a blue-white spot remained, fixed and brilliant, visible between the scudding clouds. A new star! To Eligor, it was the perfect symbol of the hope that now lay before them.
When he brought his gaze down, the Flying Guard was dispersing, undoubtedly to pursue the remnants of the Fly’s legions, and only Metaphrax remained. He, like Eligor, was silent, affected. He turned with a stunned, halfhearted wave and followed the troops out of the Rotunda.
Eligor looked at the plinth, at the spot where his lord had lain. A handful of light, clumped ash remained roughly where his hand had been—and something else. Reaching down, Eligor pushed the ashes gently, reverently, aside and pulled from them a small, white figurine. Lilith. It had been in Sargatanas’ closed hand all the while.
Chapter Thirty-Four
DIS
The Keep would be razed. That much the soul knew as he made his way up flight after flight of its dank steps.
The fighting had been over for some time—long enough for Hannibal to send back to Adamantinarx for some of his personal possessions. Swinging upon his back was a large Abyssal-hide pack, filled with everything he would need for a prolonged stay.
His souls had suffered great losses but had, too, attained a stature among the demons that they could have never hoped for before the rebellion. With Beelzebub gone, the souls were in a good position to reach for freedoms unheard of since Hell had been founded. And Hannibal was in a position to ask for power he could never have dreamt of. He would ask for, and take, it all.
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