“Full,” the Orange paladin replied, peering carefully at the dash readings. “Good estimate on the mixture.”
“I want to make sure it lasts,” Danner said seriously. “I’d rather not run out of gas and have to explain to Faldergash why I had to leave his precious buggy in the pits of Hell. I’m sure as Sin not going to push it all the way out.”
“So all this is fuel?” Trebor asked. He was clinging to the other side of the buggy and looking down into the fully loaded backseat.
“Well, this half is,” Danner replied. “The half closest to you is all the explosives Faldergash rigged up and sent with us.” Trebor leapt back and glared at Danner, who shrugged. “We haven’t needed them yet, and no one else knows how to use the damn things up here, so I figured I might as well bring them along. Never know when they might come in handy.”
Trebor glanced at the arrangement. “But in the meantime, I have nowhere to sit,” he said petulantly.
“You’re dead, Trebor,” Danner said. “It’s not like you’re going to get tired from walking.”
“He’s got you there, Treb,” Marc said.
Should it bother me that it’s this easy to talk to someone I watched die? Danner wondered. Whose death I caused?
“You’re just adjusting, Danner,” Trebor kythed to him. “You can’t stay grief-locked forever, your body and mind won’t let you. Strange as it may seem, I think my being around has finally helped you get over the last of your guilt and issues. Now, my being dead is about as important to our friendship as my being a denarae. It’s just one of those things we accept and don’t think about.”
Danner thought about it a moment, then nodded.
“Are you children finished playing around with that toy yet?” Gerard barked at them.
“Finished now, sir,” Danner replied without a trace of embarrassment. Trebor rolled his eyes, and Marc winked.
“Garnet, get Shadow Company underway,” the Red paladin ordered. “Halo Company, move out.”
In a few moments, a loose formation of six-and-a-half hundred warriors began the trek into Hell. Siren followed the group with the remnants of his Elan’Vital, and three hundred denarae and three hundred paladins – nearly all of them human – followed Gerard and Birch, who marched side-by-side to lead the way. Selti scampered at Birch’s heels, occasionally changing from his drann shape to a greyhound or a retriever, and even once to a gray, black-striped faerer. As the hours passed and they drew closer to the border between Heaven and Hell, Selti’s changes became more frequent and more erratic, to the point that people began to take notice.
“You said your uncle’s dakkan could change into just one extra shape, right?” Marc asked Danner at one point. The Orange was with Danner in the buggy, and they rode on Shadow Company’s left flank between the denarae and the column of paladins.
“Well, that’s all he used to be able to do,” Danner answered. “Birch said he’s been doing more than that since the war ended, but he doesn’t know why.”
“Hmmm.” Marc frowned in thought.
“Any theories there, booker?” Danner teased him. Marc hated that nickname.
“Not yet,” he replied, ignoring the jibe, “just that it seems to be getting worse the closer we get to Hell.”
“Well,” Danner said, “that’s where he was born. I can’t help but think being born in Hell is bound to have some sort of strange effect on a mortal creature. In a way, this is sort of a homecoming for him.”
“I guess you’re right there,” Marc allowed. “I’m surprised he was even able to be born in Hell, given the time dilation and the problems we’re having in Lokka because of this war. Maybe it just wasn’t an issue then. I’ll keep it in mind and see if I come up with anything plausible.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” Danner said with a shrug.
- 3 -
Birch snapped his fingers, but Selti ignored the summons and raced ahead at a dead sprint. His lean canine body stretched out in a sleek display of speed. In mid-stride, Selti sprouted wings and soared into the air as a drann, but still he didn’t return to Birch’s side.
“You ought to teach that beastie some manners, Birch,” Gerard said companionably. “He’s quite the little mischief maker.”
“You have no idea, Gerard,” Birch replied, “but my bond with him is too close to try and control his temperament. As I remember, you never developed a very close bond with a dakkan, but yours were always very well-disciplined.”
“Damn right they were, but I see your point,” the Red paladin said. He shook his head ruefully. “I do miss having Sabor, though. Garnet told me he took off after my death and hasn’t been seen since. He was always a half-step from being wild, no matter his training, so I imagine he went feral. Damn shame.”
The pair walked on in silence until they saw the change in the ground ahead of them. The tainted gray clouds underfoot gradually became a thick fog that rolled around their ankles, which in turn gave way to a cracked, dry landscape of utter desolation. Not a single blade of grass, not even the withered husk of a dead plant or desiccated stump of a tree to indicate life might once have existed there.
Nothing. Hell was just as absolutely devoid of life as its holy counterpart, but it had none of the redeeming beauty of Heaven.
The gray clouds overhead gradually blackened to thick storm clouds, through which bolts of lightning leapt and danced with unnatural regularity. A sourceless light shone through the ashen clouds with a fiery brilliance that was nothing like the soft, comforting light shed in Heaven. This was a fierce, harsh light that illuminated the sky like a sea of ash-covered magma suspended above them. Birch absently noted that as they crossed into Hell proper, their shadows seemed to disappear entirely. A bare trace of shadow was visible beneath each person, but no one cast a distinct shape on the ground in any particular direction.
Funny that I didn’t notice that last time, he thought. And I was just getting used to them all going their own ways.
The barren plane stretched on infinitely into the distance. To their left, a range of mountains was just visible; the rocky peaks disappeared into the stormy clouds and were hidden from view.
Deep within Birch, a knot he hadn’t even felt suddenly eased, and tension melted out of his body. Thanks to Danner, Birch realized almost immediately what was happening, and try as he might, Birch couldn’t help but feel like a part of him felt welcome. Part of him had come…
…home.
“So which way do we go?” Gerard asked.
Birch shook off the unwelcome realization and smiled thinly at the Red paladin.
“You ask like I have the first hint of where we currently are,” Birch answered wryly. “I don’t have a map in front of me that says, You are here, Gerard.”
Gerard scowled.
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Birch said, “just keep us moving and I’ll guide us in. Hasn’t traveling with angels taught you anything at all? It’s not the amount of ground in between, it’s the simple act of motion and the use of willpower to hurdle the distance and steer toward a destination. Just as it takes an angel to compress the distance in Heaven, so it will take the demon inside me to compress and direct our journey here. We could continue walking straight ahead, and if we were trying to get back to Heaven, we’d find the holy plane waiting for us.”
“So you’re telling me you can steer us in circles,” Gerard said gruffly, teasing him slightly. “Brilliant, Birch. Just bloody brilliant.”
“Just keep us moving, Gerard, and leave the rest to me,” Birch said flatly. “I’ll try to avoid any demons I detect, but be ready for anything. Remember, this is their home territory, and they’ll have every advantage in terrain and knowledge.”
Birch closed his eyes and frowned in concentration.
“Now what’s wrong?” Gerard asked, scowling at Birch’s tense face.
“I’m trying to find a place to lead us to,” the Gray paladin replied. “I didn’t have the benefit of compressed travel the last time
I was here, and I wandered for well over a decade before I found Dis. We don’t have that long now, so I need a definite point of reference to use so I can find my way around.”
“I understood enough of that to know I need to shut up and let you think,” Gerard grumbled. “I need Marc here. You’re giving me a headache, Birch.”
“Get used to it.”
After a few moments of thought, Birch finally settled on the memory of a shattered temple near the Merging. His memories of his escape from Dis and journey back to the Merging were still patchy, and Birch dared not trust that hazy recollection. It was all well and good to tell Gerard that it was the destination that counted the most, but Birch still felt more comfortable following a similar path to his original journey. With his ability to compress their journey, what took him ten years to do should now be traversed within just a few months, perhaps only weeks.
“Handy little trick this,” he murmured to himself, and for the first time he was truly glad of the demonic āyus that had become a part of him. Not for the first time, Birch wondered how much of their struggles were the result of their “free will” and how much of it was predetermined by a divine entity. Was he meant to have the demon inside him for this very reason?
Something his brother had once said came back to him then.
“When you think about it that way,” Hoil said, “it makes me more confident that the world will be safe, because you were the one chosen to save us. I don’t know anybody else I’d trust with the fate of the world.”
“You don’t know all the people in the world, Hoil,” Birch objected.
“I don’t have to. You’re the best.”
Birch smiled at the memory. Hoil had even more faith in Birch than he himself sometimes had. Still, Birch had faith that his steps were being guided by a divine hand, and he prayed that he would be strong enough to fulfill his role.
Hours later, Gerard called the group to a halt so those still living could sleep. The members of the blessed dead among them – who needed no sleep – kept watch so their living companions could enjoy a full-night’s rest. Even Siran and the Elan’Vital rested easily under their careful watch. Birch lay down and felt comforted when Selti sedately trotted to his side in his drann form and calmly curled up in his customary place on Birch’s back.
“You know this will have to change for good when Moreen and I are finally together,” Birch murmured over his shoulder. Selti yawned disinterestedly and closed his eyes.
The heat from the drann body and Selti’s breathing quickly lulled Birch to sleep.
- 4 -
He groaned in pain and tried not to shift his pain-wracked arms and legs, which were stretched above and below him to the point of dislocation. Not past the point, just hovering perfectly in a state of intense agony, like a stick bent to the exact instant before it splinters and breaks. The slightest shift in his body would push him over the threshold, and his bones would rip free from their sockets.
He lay motionless for four hours – he watched time tick slowly by on his dwarven timepiece across the room. Then the Voice returned.
“Marvelous, just marvelous,” the Voice said from behind him.
“You enjoy my torture?” he asked without malice.
“Of course not. What use have I for physical torture?” the Voice asked. “No, mortal, I was merely commenting on the strength of the mortal spirit, yours in particular. The last paladin they abused thus only lasted a few hours before he broke – physically, mentally, and spiritually all at once. Alefred Montain was his name, if memory serves.”
“I knew him,” he said quietly. “He was an instructor of mine, Blue until his reflection changed and he crossed the Merging. Two years after I became a paladin.”
“Well, you’ll perhaps be pleased to know he only suffered for a month before they killed him. They’re very good by now, and death is better than the alternative for most.”
“I would rather he still lay on the table beside me than what you just told me.”
“Yes,” the Voice said as though surprised. “Yes, I believe you really would. Interesting. Of course, I’ve never fully agreed with the business of torture. It doesn’t suit me.”
“Torture not suited to a demon?” he scoffed. “As well claim the ocean unsuited for a fish, or the sky for a bird. Mephistopheles himself has taken his hand at my flesh.” An involuntary shudder coursed through his body and nearly pushed his limbs over the limit, but he controlled himself and brought his body back to stillness.
“Indeed, the King of Hell is among those most suited for such work,” the Voice said. “Torturers exist to elicit pain and dominance, their entire sense of worth comes from their victim acknowledging that he can be hurt and is totally in the power of his captor. When finally their captive yearns for death, thus giving the torturer the power to deny that desired release, they taste the proverbial power of God, if you will excuse the phrase.
“As for Mephistopheles, when you rule by strength and dominance, torture comes as readily as breathing. I tell you now, mortal, your captors hate you more than they have ever hated another mortal,” the Voice said in confidential tones, “solely because you continue to resist them. You’ve been here how long now?”
“Three years, seven months, eight days, and about nine hours, as best as I can figure it.”
“You see?” the Voice said, pleased. “And that is why they hate you. You are not afraid of them, and somehow you retain an impossible hope and spirit. So it is they who fear you and must try all the harder to prove their power over you. I encourage you to resist – I require it even, if you are to be of any use to me. Already you show great promise, mortal. When the time comes, I sincerely hope you are the one.”
He was silent a moment in thought.
“You say torturers aren’t then complete without a victim to give them worth,” he said finally, “and you admit that demons are perfectly suited as torturers.”
“In the same way that angels are suited for babysitting and servitude to give meaning to their existence, yes,” the Voice said with a hint of contempt.
“What they should I conclude about a denizen of Hell telling me these things?”
The Voice breathed out a soft laugh.
“I say again, mortal, I have no taste for torture. Oh, it has it’s uses, make no mistake, but as for being the torturer… You might say I am perfectly in love with Myself. Of what use could it possibly be to one who needs no external acknowledgement for self-worth?”
He shifted his head ever so slightly, the only physical indication of the thoughts and possibilities churning within him. Finally he whispered, “Who are you?”
“You know who I am, mortal,” the Voice replied in a contemplative. “Again, you know. How curious. And yet the time has not yet come for you to retain that knowledge, however. You must forget then. Forget, mortal.
“Forget.”
Chapter 35
I am forced to wonder what would happen to the soul of a man who is thoroughly convinced he hasn’t one?
- Kaelus,
“Collected Accounts from the Pandemonium War”
- 1 -
Malith knelt to touch the gray clouds beneath his feet. He fingered the sickly growth of moss-like plants and pondered its meaning. The Black paladin knew as well as any there was no true life in Heaven or Hell, yet here he was with living lichens crumbling between his fingers. He vaguely remembered from his days as a living man there was some speculation about the nature of life and its origins – something to do with good and evil combined, or some such nonsense.
A plant is neither good nor evil, he mused, so how could its life be made up of either? Foolishness.
Such knowledge was pointless, in any event. The moss beneath him could not be used as a weapon, it provided no tactical advantage, and any further thought given to it was a waste of his time. Malith deliberately stepped on a thick patch of the soft, living tissue, and ground it beneath his foot as he walked away.
There was
still no word from Azazel after the unfortunate attack on his makeshift prison camp. The demon prince was assumed dead, or at least so weakened that he might as well be. Azazel would be at risk of discovery from both angels and demons – the first would kill him because of what he was, the second would kill him to absorb his strength and āyus. Malith himself might kill the demon prince on sight, if only for the joy it would bring him to crush such an abysmal failure.
To have had Birch in his grasp and to lose him! Not to mention that accursed elf captain, Siran. Malith repressed a shudder. That man was death incarnate. Malith knew he was better than any living swordsman, with the possible exception of Garnet, who’d beaten him during their one encounter. Still, the Black paladin would rather face Garnet again than pit himself against Siran.
Fortunately, there was little chance of them meeting face-to-face. Malith had shifted his tactics yet again and had divided the demonic horde into five armies, each under the command of a demon lord or prince, and scattered them about Heaven with one goal in mind. Converge on the city of Medina and raze it to the ground.
By dividing his own force, Malith hoped to fragment the already weak army of the Heavenly Hosts. The five armies were large enough that it would take nearly all of the remaining angels and blessed dead to safely overwhelm any one of them, but doing so would leave the other four a free hand in marching toward the holy city. Malith had a certain level of respect for his opponents, and he knew only a foolish commander would ever commit to such a foolhardy tactic.
It would still take the demons several weeks to reach Medina, however, and all along the way they were instructed to destroy any unfortified force they came across, so long as it didn’t slow their advance too much. Malith didn’t want the demons bogged down with delaying tactics, which included wasting time overrunning the fortresses the angels insisted on erecting. Now the demon commanders had orders to ignore such strongholds. They were to ford every river, cross every mountain, and destroy every angel they came across. No diversions, no detours, no more delays.
Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3) Page 50
