God's Demon

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hannibal woke with a start.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes; he knew immediately that he was not as he had been, not whole. Weakly he tried to sit up, but he heard Mago quietly tell him to lie still. He was in an unfamiliar room somewhere, he guessed, in Adamantinarx. Which was a relief, because it told him that the battle had been won.

His entire left arm was gone, traded, he saw, for the immense hooked weapon that lay ominously on the table nearby. It was as long as his arm had been. Strange that it is here, the instrument of my loss.

But stranger still was the tarnished and pitted disk that lay next to it. It was Moloch—or what was left of him. A spoil of war, a prize beyond measure, and, clearly, left for him as an honor. But what, if anything, could he, a soul, do with it: wear it around his neck? He would have to ask Lilith or Eligor.

“Tell me, Mago. Tell me what I missed.”

“You are fortunate, my brother,” Mago said plainly. “Fortunate to have survived Moloch and more so still to have had the First Consort, herself, attend your wounds.”

He thought about the battle and about his confrontation with his ex-god. As blurred in Hannibal’s mind as was the duel itself, equally sharp was the memory of that furious face.

“And Lord Sargatanas?”

“He lives… but he is not as he was.”

Hannibal looked down for the first time at his vacant shoulder and said “Nor am I.”

“No, Hannibal, it isn’t like that… he was wounded, true, but that isn’t the change I meant. He is now bone-white from head to toe.”

“A miracle?”

“Or a curse. The city is full of rumors, not all good. Some see it as an omen of catastrophe. Lord Yen Wang, in particular, seems uneasy; some of his minions are spreading doubts among the other demons.”

“Doubts?”

Mago rubbed his chin. Hannibal could not tell which side of the argument his brother favored.

“The city is in a state that you and I remember well enough from our own fair city… war preparations. While most believe the officially disseminated story, only a few truly know what happened to him to change him as he now is. Some say it is Lucifer’s doing and that he has marked Sargatanas. Or the First Consort’s ensorcellment, which, in my opinion, holds a grain of plausibility. Cynics say that he is delusional, mad, and that somehow this has transformed him inside as well as outside. They are in the minority. And the newer allies… Put Satanachia, whom you haven’t met, aside… seem like little more than opportunists. I might be wrong; that’s my impression, though. But all of this creates an aura of uncertainty that runs through the streets like effluvia.”

Hannibal knew that variety of poison. During wartime it could be as deadly as a well-aimed arrow. He had done everything in his life to avoid it.

Mago looked down. Hannibal saw his brother’s gray hands working at the folds of his Abyssal-skin robes.

“What is it, Brother?”

Mago frowned. “This is not the time.”

“Ask.”

“Does it not trouble you, this alliance of ours? Demons and souls?”

Hannibal closed his eyes. How could he explain his need to pursue power no matter where he was? Would Mago understand?

“Yes, it does trouble me. If it were any other demon but Sargatanas I would never have had the courage to get involved. Nor would I have had a chance. I’m sure you’ve noticed that they’re not at ease having us as allies, either. Sargatanas isn’t like the rest of them. He has a single-minded purity of purpose… something like my own.”

“And just what is your… purpose?”

“You spoke of opportunists. That would be what we are, Mago. For us, this is a rebellion of convenience. At first, I was swept up by the goal that he held out… that shining chance to go to Heaven. But now… especially after the battle… I just don’t know.

“When we were fighting, and the souls around me were being cut down, it didn’t seem to me that they were anything but dead, not the living death of being turned into a brick, either. I wondered, ‘Will that ever change?’ To me, Mago, it’s still very much an open question as to whether we will ever have that chance.”

Mago stood and turned toward a stone-sheathed wall. He looked up at the glyphs-of-protection that circled the ceiling.

“Does that change anything… I mean for you as our general?”

“No. You know me, Mago; I’m no dreamer. I’m a realist. I am in Hell and I deserve to be here for what I’ve done. As do you and all the others. If we cannot go to Heaven, I, for one, won’t be surprised. I hope that we can. But, with that said, I will lead the souls with the same vigor I’d have if I did truly believe.”

“Hannibal, your entire life was about pursuing dreams.”

Hannibal laughed and then winced, clutching his painful shoulder.

“The power I have in the here and now,” he said after a few moments, “that’s what’s important. Could you have imagined, during all those long, torture-filled centuries, that I… we… would be in the position we’re in now? If I can better our lot here, then that is reason enough to lead.”

Mago turned back to the pallet and looked down at his brother. “For you, this is about power?”

“Everything is about power.”

“Not everything. Not for Sargatanas.”

“That’s why he may fail.”

He saw her face again and could not believe, with all that he had seen in Hell, that it was still the most affecting image his dream-mind could produce. Funny, a part of him reflected, that the Hell inside his head was more potent than the one outside, that no matter what horrors he saw, it was her shining, trusting infant eyes that cut him to the marrow.

The child spoke his name and it felt like an arrow flying into his breast, but as it was repeated its sound changed, growing huskier and assuming a strange accent until, after a moment, he realized that she was not uttering it. As he awoke he recognized the voice to be that of Lilith, and when he opened his eyes he was looking up into her perfect oval face.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“How are you?”

“Mending, my lady. With thanks to you.”

“Are you feeling ‘mended’ enough for an answer to your questions about this?” another voice asked. Sargatanas appeared behind Lilith, the disk of Moloch held in his hand.

“My lord!” It had seemed so long since he had seen Sargatanas. He is transformed! Hannibal swung his legs over the side of the pallet and tried to step down, but Lilith put a restraining hand on his chest.

“He seems strong enough, my lord,” Lilith said, smiling.

“He will have to be,” Sargatanas said. “I need him at the head of his legions.”

Sargatanas turned the ugly disk in his hand. Its edges were sharp and jagged, and Hannibal heard them scrape on the demon’s hard palm as he regarded it. He seemed apprehensive about the object, almost cautious in the way he handled it.

“Hannibal, there are many things that I can do in this world, but giving you your arm back… to undo the dismemberment… is not among them. There are ways, though, that you can, once again, have a living limb, but to do this I would need, simply put, a catalyst… an object of power that would add the necessary new elements to my abilities. This,” he said, holding the Moloch disk up between his thumb and forefinger, “is one such object.

“And how would that be done?”

“I would have to place this inside your shoulder.”

A ripple of fear spread through Hannibal as he unconsciously reached for his shoulder. To enfold the ex-god within himself was a detestable idea, an act that would embrace the very entity that had caused him so much grief. He shook his head.

“You can, of course, elect to not use the disk. It will be otherwise useless to you… a simple trophy, well won, to put upon a shelf,” Lilith said. “There is no shame in choosing that alternative, Hannibal.”

“I have no other such items at hand,” Sargatanas said. “I am sure one will turn up eventually, but not in time for the upcoming battle.”

Hannibal looked down, considering the possibilities.

“This is our way… the demons’ way,” Sargatanas said plainly, putting a hand to the countless layered phalerae that were embedded in his chest. “There is no telling how it may affect you. I have never heard of this being done with a soul, and so there is no precedent. In all likelihood you will benefit by simply growing a new arm… that is the invocation I would be using. It would be too unpredictable to attempt to augment your abilities in any way.”

“We can give you a short time to decide,” Lilith said, “but the allies’ armies are arriving and very soon Sargatanas will be departing.” She looked toward the demon and Hannibal saw the concern flash across her features. “You will have to decide before then.”

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment and saw the fleeting image of his daughter’s face, still fresh from his dream. It would feel like another betrayal of her to accept the Moloch disk. But would it really be one? What would Imilce say? He did not relish the idea of fighting with only one arm, nor could he be the kind of general who stayed behind the front ranks, ordering others to fight. He was in Hell, and to survive he needed every advantage.

“There is no need to wait, my lord and lady. I will accept this.” The ashen taste of fear, an unfamiliar taste, tightened his throat.

Lilith put a hand on his shoulder.

“You need not worry, Hannibal. Sargatanas has no doubts regarding the outcome of this invocation.”

“Then let’s get it over with.”

Sargatanas set himself, took a deep breath, and began to intone four phrases four times in a voice comprised of four harmonics:

“Ogiodi Azdra… Tplabc Zibra… Rnoizr Nrzfm… Rplalen Bbemo… Yolcam Abzien!”

Four large glyphs, simple in form but different in color, appeared and began to circle the Demon Major’s head and by the fourth revolution they spread out, two on either side.

Lilith squeezed Hannibal’s hand as Sargatanas used the disk’s sharp edge to slice open her careful stitches. With a powerful thrust he pushed it deep within the shoulder until it was lodged beneath the soul’s collarbone. Immediately the demon spoke one of the four paired words and the corresponding glyph dropped down into Hannibal’s open wound, causing a terrible burning that spread throughout his body. The next glyphs brought, in rapid succession, the sensations of drowning in some engulfing, cloying liquid followed by a sudden cracking coldness and finally parching dryness. He saw Sargatanas’ lips moving but could hear nothing. Shocked and nauseated, Hannibal retched until his stomach ached. When he was finished he looked weakly at his wound and was dimly amazed that, without stitches, it had sealed itself.

“I chose you well, Hannibal Barca,” Lilith said softly. “Your strength is matched only by your courage. Rest now and we will send Mago in to be with you.”

She turned to leave, but Sargatanas lingered.

“There is one small thing more.” He extended his hand and with his index finger described a flowing pattern in the air above the soul’s shoulder, an arcing, actinic line of blue flame that looked, to Hannibal, like a charging animal. The glyph did not fade, and with every slight movement the soul made it moved with him.

“You are the first soul in Hell’s long, dark history to have earned his own sigil. It will be a mark of distinction… of power and protection… upon the battlefield,” the demon said with a touch of pride. And then, as he stood, he added, “You will be needing it in the next days!”

Exhausted as he was, Hannibal managed a faint grin.

Lilith glanced at Sargatanas and thought he had never seemed more preoccupied. He was at once attentive and loving but consumed, as well, with the minutiae of state. He had an army to create—even greater than before—and time was running short. Accompanied by Zoray and a cohort of his Foot Guard, he and Lilith, after reviewing the remaining legions just outside the gates, ascended along the Rule from the tangle of the Acheron’s bank-side streets up toward the distant palace. On either side of the avenue, souls and demons alike knelt silently, staring at the two white figures in wonderment.

These were the days that she would long for, Lilith knew, even as, like jewels falling one by one from a broken necklace, they fell away. Though Adamantinarx was in a bustling state of mobilization, she and Sargatanas managed to keep constant company, to go from site to site and watch the mustering city at its finest. Part of her sensed that he was bringing her along not only out of love but also to familiarize her with the workings of the great city. In some place in her mind she wondered if he was grooming her for some role in the city.

Walking next to the demon lord, Lilith found it difficult not to descend into melancholia; the thought of his possible impending loss—through either the attainment of his goal or his destruction on the battlefield—was so daunting. And the third alternative—a hollow victory wherein he simply returned to his city, unfulfilled—worried her nearly as much. She did not want to feel dependent upon him, but that possibility was becoming truth. The pushing and pulling of her conflicting desires—her own admittedly selfish hunger for him against her urge to help him attain his goal—confused her. Perhaps it was just the vapors blowing off the Acheron that had made her so low spirited.

As they entered the palace precincts, a messenger approached Zoray, saluted, and spoke briefly as they walked. When he departed, the Demon Minor turned to Sargatanas.

“My lord, we are still coming up short on the numbers of souls. Mago and his commanders have informed me that they are able to field only nineteen full legions… not even close to what you had hoped for.”

Sargatanas looked up at the sky and sighed. “We need to be ready to march the moment our allies’ armies arrive. Begin to take down the buildings.”

“My lord…?”

“And conscript the workers as well. Mago will know how to integrate them into the soul army. Every soul who survived the Flaming Cut should be put in charge of a new cohort.”

“But, my lord, the city’s buildings…?”

“Are a resource to be used. Start with the domiciles, destroying those within, then the shops, then the bigger buildings, and so on until we have the numbers we need. And, Zoray, use the palace as well.”

They resumed walking. Zoray looked confounded.

“My lord… you are sacrificing Adamantinarx?”

“The city can be rebuilt… but not with souls. There is plenty of native stone out there to be quarried.”

“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.”