God's Demon

by Wayne Barlowe

  THE WASTES

  The ground screamed behind them as the army headed toward Adamantinarx, making its way through terrain that had grown rougher and more difficult the farther from Dis it marched. The ancient trackway to Adamantinarx had been disused for a very long time and had become overgrown, the sliced flesh of the old roadbed cuts having filled in considerably in the millennia. But, Adramalik could see, it was essentially still there, the roads remaining clearer in most cases than the tunnels, which were frequently tangled with heavy-branched, arterial trees and tangles of intertwined, venous growth. Small obstructions had been chopped away by the pioneers in the vanguard, but eventually the enormous ribbon that was the army reached the first foothills, low and rolling and grown higher since the road had been cut. Adramalik had watched as the blunt-headed Maws—faster and more precise than the lumbering Demolishers—had been brought forth and had been set upon the landscape amidst a chorus of gnashing teeth and screaming groundswells. Enlarged and attenuated into long tubular shapes and then bound tightly together by the hundreds, the soul-bundles chewed through the fleshy landscape, clearing the straight trek so characteristic of Dis’ relentless generals—the arrow-straight path that almost symbolically allowed for no obstacles. Adramalik knew the fields would heal, that the capricious slashings of the soldiers’ weapons and the gnawed roadway would scab over eventually, but for the moment, as they made their way through the frontier, he would enjoy the choir of shrill screams that the ground gave voice to.

  * * * * *

  On the third week of their march the army came upon a wide, gurgling river of blood, which had, long ago, been spanned by a thick-pillared bridge, but while the pillars remained erect, the broad roadway had fallen, forcing the soldiers to ford through the fast-moving currents. The mounted battalions had no difficulty negotiating the river, but the legions were momentarily thrown into disarray as the currents churned and shifted. Stained a glistening, deep red, they climbed the far banks and veered back onto the old road. Here the ground was aflame and the black smoke billowed in huge, shifting sheets. Peering into the gloom, Adramalik saw vague shapes, gigantic Abyssals that concealed themselves in the smoke and dogged the columns, watching hopefully for any small scout detachment to stray too far from the protection of the army. Theirs would be a swift end, signaled only by the sudden flare of lights in the darkness. The Chancellor General knew that few, if any, of the mounted scouts would be foolhardy enough to lose sight of the column.

  Without rest the army marched, straight through the wilds of the frontier, through the noisy fields of indifferent Sag-hrim and their Psychemancers, past the towering and floating stelae bearing gigantic sculpted fly heads that marked the border of Beelzebub’s realm. Beyond them, through the wide Wastes and past Astaroth’s broken realm, lay the wards of Sargatanas’ kingdom, a rich prize that the Prince would easily wrest from the upstart Demon Major. If I am careful they could become mine, thought Adramalik. Careful and ruthless. A kingdom of my own with the best of my Knights would be powerful indeed. It had become a frequent thought that brought a cold ghost of a smile to the Chancellor General’s hard face as he plodded along atop his mount.

  THE FLAMING CUT

  The outpost, a low, jagged silhouette of broken buildings, was situated between two long, flaming ridges. It was not on any map that Adramalik had seen back in the chart-rooms of Dis, but that, he knew, meant nothing; those floating maps had been drawn and redrawn dozens of centuries ago, and with relations growing strained between the two cities surveyors had not been sent out since. The ridges may not have even been aflame back then. Or, he thought, perhaps this was simply a convenient roosting spot for the abandoned buildings that had been cut from the city and had floated into the wilds.

  Adramalik followed as Moloch and the staff entered the empty town. Old weapons, swords, long spears, and hatchets lay about everywhere, some in piles, others strewn randomly amidst the rubble. How old they were or why they had been left behind Adramalik could not begin to guess.

  The light wind that had been easy to ignore picked up and grew turbulent, blowing ash in thick swirls that seemed alive in their determination to attack the warriors; some thought they saw the telltale tendrils of glyphs woven into the shifting fabric of the clouds. Aware that the winds whipping in from over his wards might be an artifice of Sargatanas’, Moloch’s legions took a full day, under the slitted, watchful eyes of their leaders, to pass cautiously through and around the town, flowing down into the valley between the ridges like a dark and viscous liquid. There, as they built their fortified camp, each of them saw the distant lights of Sargatanas’ encamped army, a broad and incandescent swath of fires and picket-sigils that stretched into the distant gloom. Flanked by his two Knight-Brigadiers, Melphagor the Primus and Salabrus, Adramalik stared into the carpet of light and tried to gauge the strength of the opposing force but found that it was impossible due to the obscuring clouds.

  “They have no idea what they face, Chancellor General,” Melphagor said in his hoarse voice, relishing the thought. Wisps of fire flicked at the burned corners of his mouth. “Sargatanas is as misguided as he is indecisive.”

  “I have seen otherwise, Brigadier. Sargatanas is no mere upstart to be ridiculed and easily shunted aside.”

  “Yes, and Moloch is no mere general. Are you doubtful of our coming success, Adramalik?”

  Adramalik’s eyes narrowed. This was no time for the shadow of suspicion to fall upon him. Not with the prize so close. His trust for the Brigadier was significant, born in battle and in the Keep. But trust, in Hell, went only so far, and Adramalik’s was a coveted position.

  “Not in the least,” he said smoothly. “I am simply saying, Melphagor, that while we may have greater losses than the Prince or Moloch expect, the battle’s outcome has never been in question.”

  Melphagor smiled, seemingly satisfied.

  A squadron of pinpoint lights, winged scouts keeping watch, banked across the sky over the enemy encampment. What is he planning? Clearly he did not want us near his precious city.

  He turned back to the growing camp and was rewarded with the sight of dozens of their own protective picket-sigils blazing to life with a loud hiss. They would not withstand Sargatanas himself but would, at least, slow him down were he to be foolish enough to attack them where they were en-camped. Adramalik looked at the two scarlet-swathed field officers and knew that what he was about to say would appeal to them.

  “I want both of you to understand something. Moloch’s personal protection is Moloch’s business. If he has any bodyguard at all, it is little concern of ours. We enter into this battle for the enduring glory of the Knights of the Order of the Fly, not to further the general’s cause. Do I make myself clear?”

  The two brigadiers nodded curtly, hands flat to their chests, claws extended outward in salute. Adramalik saw their predictable and savage grins and knew that they would relish spreading the word to all their fellow Knights; there was no loyalty to be had for the ex-god. As powerful as he was, Moloch would have to be very careful indeed to survive an enemy assault upon his person. And survive he might, but the Chancellor General vowed it would not knowingly be with his aid or that of his Knights.

  With a decisive victory and some good battlefield luck Adramalik would have his kingdom soon. The Prince’s grasp, he realized, felt looser already.

  THE FLAMING CUT

  “They are out there, my lord, just over that rise,” said Eligor loudly over the winds, folding his wings to enter the main campaign tent. Situated on the top of a small hillock in the middle of the camp and denoted by its giant seal, it commanded an excellent view. But exposed as it was, the wind played havoc with its skin sides, creating an enormous flapping sound that was difficult to ignore.

  “And the town beyond?”

  “No one walks its streets.”

  Sargatanas pulled back the skin-door flap and looked out over the ash-shrouded expanse between the two crouching armies. Past his huge camp he coul
d see the ground-sheets of gray flesh undulating as if his hot, summoned winds were rippling them. Less distinct because of the ash clouds were the two soaring sheets of red flame that, topping the twin ridges, gave the region its name.

  “Hannibal?”

  “The Soul-General is concealed and in position with his troops, awaiting your commands.”

  As they spoke, a series of glyphs began to stream from Sargatanas, speeding away toward the camp’s many generals’ tents—orders to assemble, the Captain noted. It was beginning.

  Eligor waited silently with the Demon Major standing beside him in the doorway of his huge tent, a calm, motionless figure with eyes closed, a corona of glyphs emerging from his brow and forming a circle of luminosity that hung in the dark.

  Presently, Sargatanas’ general staff began to appear, some by wing, others quickly by foot. As they entered the tent, each demon wiped away the ash and passed before his lord solemnly greeting him, their expressions ranging from clench-jawed determination to glittering-eyed eagerness. Taking up positions in the growing rows, they first knelt and then sat upon folding camp stools, their silence a measure of their anticipation and respect. Eligor watched them, impressed, not for the first time, that his lord had gathered such a disparate yet formidable host of followers.

  When Eligor turned back it was the lean figure of Baron Faraii who stood, framed by the doorway, bowing stiffly, before Lord Sargatanas. “My lord,” Faraii said quietly, “I thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead my troopers once again.”

  Sargatanas nodded curtly and gestured for the Baron to enter, his eyes following him and watching, Eligor guessed, the other generals’ reactions as Faraii took his seat.

  Lord Valefar entered and was greeted with a grin by Sargatanas. The Prime Minister, hefting his sword, waited by his lord’s side to accompany him to the head of the gathering.

  Sargatanas looked wryly at him, indicating the sword, and said, “I see you have brought my old friend with you.”

  Valefar, looking amused, said nothing but patted the sword’s hilt affectionately. Eligor wished he could have been present when the sword had been revealed to Sargatanas.

  When no more demons appeared at the entrance, Sargatanas and Valefar walked the length of the tent and stopped just in front of the seated figures. Eligor saw that his lord had shifted his armored form to accommodate the many cascading winglets and fins that hung elegantly about him like a multilayered cape. Half his height above him his Great Seal hung, casting its steady, fiery glow upon his head and shoulders. In his hand was the curved sword Lukiftias, which twitched and trembled, eager, it would seem, for the impending battle.

  “Brethren,” he began in a clarion voice that sliced through the sounds of the wind and the flapping of the tent sides, “brethren, it would be all too easy, looking out across the plain toward the Cut, to lose our will, to think that nothing could overcome the forces of Moloch that we will face today.

  “I will not lie. I cannot tell you that we will not suffer losses, perhaps even great losses. The armies we face are huge indeed, but as the battle unfolds you will see that I and Lord Valefar and each of you have more than evened the odds. We bring an advantage to the battlefield in the very legions we are fielding, in the shape of weapons and warriors of which Dis itself has never conceived.

  “But we have another advantage as well. It is that the unclean Pridzarhim Moloch, in the fullness of his arrogance, believes he is unvanquishable. Today you and your legions will show him that he is wrong! Today, together, we will send a clear message back to the creature that sits upon the throne in Dis! And that message is that nothing, no force in Hell great in arms or invocation, can keep us from returning to the world we once loved and left.”

  Eligor saw how the words spoken by his lord galvanized the generals, how a murmur of approval escaped from nearly every grinning mouth.

  “Lords, each of you will be receiving my orders as you leave. Be certain that if you obey them and stand firm upon the battlefield we will prevail. Baron Faraii, I would have you and your troopers close by to augment my personal guard upon the battlefield. Lord Furcas, I need you by my side.”

  “But what of the Soul-General and his army, my lord?” a voice was heard to ask from the ranks of dark seated figures.

  “Lord Vismodeus, General Hannibal and his troops will be there for me when they are needed.”

  “But… souls… how can we be certain they can be trusted?”

  “How can the souls be certain they can trust us? Since Hell was colonized we have been their tireless, unyielding masters meting out Hell’s justice like a hammer. The battle at hand started as our rebellion and yet Hannibal has marshaled a force willing to fight, not only for their own eternity but for ours as well. I ask you, do we not owe them our trust?”

  “Lord, it was not my intention to question your will.”

  “It is your right as one of my trusted generals to ask.”

  And then Eligor saw and heard a measure of what made Sargatanas so unique among the demons of Hell.

  Sargatanas stood and looked deeply, for many moments, into the eyes of those gathered before him and then said, “Brethren, we are about to engage the enemy in the opening battle of what may be a long and terrible campaign. If we lose we will not be given any quarter. But if we win, as I know we will, it will shape our existences forever. Each and every one of you bears within him the past we once cherished. When we unsheathe our weapons let us remember the angels we once were but fight like the demons we are.

  “Heaven awaits!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE FLAMING CUT

  The furnace-breath of stinging cinders blew forcefully into the determined faces of Moloch’s legions as they streamed from their camp. Even with that and the vicious winds, Adramalik could not help but reflect on how much he thrilled at the unforgiving world he lived in. Kneeling next to his giant soul-steed, Adramalik washed his dusty hands in the red blood of an artery broken besides a fallen tree. This day, he thought, this day, to me, is what it means to live in Hell. The ash, the blood, the fires, and this battle—I am truly in my element!

  As he savored the moment, he heard an enthusiastic shout go up from the front lines and carry back through the legions to his position; the summoned sulfurous wind had suddenly faded and ceased altogether; slowly the blackened veil lifted from the landscape. Adramalik saw more clearly now the two sheets of fire that extended on either side nearly to Sargatanas’ camp shimmering into the sky for hundreds of feet. A natural wonder, he thought, so beautiful. It seemed almost like a punctuation to complete his contentment, an ironic gift from his enemy. Moloch’s battlefield conjurors must have found a way to counter Sargatanas’ invocation. We can match anything he has to offer. We will crush him and his misguided army. And when we have finished him we will punish the wards of his allies.

  For some minutes the two armies faced each other and the only sound was of the breathing of demons.

  Drawing his saber from its scabbard, Adramalik swung lightly up into his saddle and pulled the reins until he was facing Moloch. You will be the instrument of my goals, Pridzarhim general, he thought, raising his sword in a perfunctory salute to the mounted general. Moloch, barely acknowledging him, cast a command-glyph in his direction and set off at a trot toward the head of the decamping army.

  Absorbing the glyph, Adramalik closed his eyes, visualizing its meaning. The battle plan was relatively simple. Massed heavy cavalry, followed by the legions, would punch its way through the middle of Sargatanas’ lines, flank them, and return to split them into smaller and smaller blocks. The legions would then engage those pockets of disorganized infantry that fought on as he was certain they would. Having borne witness to Sargatanas’ battle with Astaroth, Adramalik had little doubt that the fighting would be fierce.

  Around him he heard the thunder of a million footfalls as the heavy cavalry formed up and began to gain speed. He saw the innumerable banners of Dis, surmounted by the Pr
ince’s fly-and-sigil device and attached to long lances, lower in anticipation of the final contact. With a word eagerly uttered, glyphs appeared along his sword’s tempered length, giving way to white-hot flames. While not even close in power to the swords of the Above, it was still more than most demons could withstand. Adramalik pulled his battalion alongside that of Moloch and off to his left, a few hundred yards away, he could just see that the general had lit his baton and was issuing commands, tightening the formation. He held both Hooks in one massive hand, at the ready.

  Looking far ahead between the two camps, the Chancellor General saw what appeared to be a distant wall, low and long, and, he imagined, hastily thrown up. Behind it troops of some kind could be seen scurrying back and forth. Even though they were faintly illuminated by the suspended sheets of flame, he could not tell what kind of infantry they would be meeting shortly.

  Moloch cast out the command to pick up speed and suddenly, at his urging, Adramalik’s soul-steed was galloping, racing over the ground-skin in huge, bounding bursts. Exhilarated, he watched as the distances between the armies rapidly closed. He could now plainly see the small figures, cowering in fear, he was sure, behind the wall, and to his complete astonishment he realized they were souls. By Abaddon’s Pit, this is unheard of! Bringing in dirty larvae to fight against demons! Directly behind them Adramalik thought he could discern a motley array of legions, including a few composed of pike-wielding demons—most likely Sargatanas’ phalangites. Is this all that he has brought to face us? The battle with Astaroth and the occupation of his wards must have stretched his resources more than I thought. The phalangites are tough veterans… but souls? How desperate is he?