His feet led him steadily upward along a path he had never before traveled but which seemed impossibly, disturbingly familiar. The stairs were proportioned for the stride of demons, and he stopped more frequently than he would have desired. Occasionally, as he wended his way up through the Keep, he saw open areas still supported only by beams of splintered bone, empty spaces that were evidence of the Watcher’s explosive passage up through the massive structure. There was no point repairing the damage and so it would stay as it was for hundreds of years, until, bit by bit, the entire structure was torn down.
After hours of ascent, Hannibal found himself at the base of the unadorned tower. It was a foreboding sight. The windowless, tubelike interior shot up into an oppressive darkness lit by very few braziers, the staircase barely seen winding its way toward the top. He sat down on the tall first step and caught his breath, wondering what he would find when he made it to the chamber high above. And for the thousandth time wondering what drove him to this spot. Part of him was grateful for the time alone; many of the souls he had encountered since the battle still eyed him suspiciously for his broken promise, for his acts upon the ramp. He had hoped that with victory would come an understanding among them of his motives. But how could they understand something of which he, himself, was uncertain?
He tightened his pack’s straps, straightened his cloak, and continued the climb. Periodically, the steps disappeared into the shadows and he had to feel his way up the curving stairs, cautious not to come too close to the edge and risk slipping and plunging hundreds of feet to his destruction. After a few hours, sweating and breathing hard, he reached the top landing. A huge door, dimly lit by a single small brazier, stood before him, its surface laced with bone designs. He worriedly looked for a keyhole, fearing that he might have made the arduous journey for naught had the door been locked, but fortune or destiny was on his side. When he twisted the oversized latch, the door reluctantly gave way. He gave it an extra shove with his newly grown arm and it moved easily inward. Foolish to think one would need a lock here. No demon would have made this climb without having been Summoned.
When he entered the wide, round room a hot, sulphurous wind whipped at him, drying the sweat upon his skin and ruffling his cloak. Three wide windows opened out onto a vast panorama of the region surrounding the Keep; it would have been an amazing view of Dis in the days when the capital still stood.
The room’s interior was proportioned for a demon; the spare furnishings—ledges mostly—were too high for Hannibal to sit upon. He placed his pack down and removed his cape, rubbing his shoulders from the strap’s chafing. His new arm—now nearly the proper length—ached less and less and felt very different from his original limb. Its muscles were heavier, denser, and he put this down to its newness and his improved health. Whatever the reason, it seemed almost like a reward for his loss and it pleased him.
Strangely restless, he spotted a pair of rectangular stone structures that rose up, side by side, in the center of the circular room. He moved toward them and noticed the twin runnels that, incised into the darkly stained floor, ran from one side of the chamber and disappeared beneath their bases, clearly some ingenious mechanism for bringing liquid into the troughs. Cages seemed to be visible in the deep shadows. What were they for? he wondered. And whose chambers had these been? He would have to ask some of the imprisoned demons.
He searched the room for clues and found some closed doors. Something kept him from opening them and he moved on, continuing his superficial investigation. There would be time for a more detailed examination, for he had already decided that these would be his quarters while he stayed in the Keep and searched for Imilce. With the Keep coming down his chances of finding her were, at best, fair. But he would try, if for no other reason than to tell her what he had done here in Hell. Between the unparalleled view and the welcome isolation he would endure the climb to occupy them. And anyone who had important news could make the climb themselves to convey it.
His eyes fell upon his pack and he went to it and, kneeling, emptied it out upon the floor. A large object, heavily wrapped, tumbled out with a dull thud and he began to tug at its wrappings until it came free. He started to reach for it with his old hand but changed his mind in midstream. It was too heavy to pick up with that weaker limb and he corrected himself, grasping it with his new hand by its thick handle and lifting it easily to eye level. The Hook looked right in this place, its ten diamond-edged points gleaming menacingly in the low light. Catching a glimpse of the troughs, Hannibal nodded to himself and carried the weapon to them. With some difficulty, he placed it into one of the deep troughs and stood back. It fit perfectly, but something was wrong. He looked at the runnels and frowned; that was a mystery he would have to work out.
Exhaustion finally overtook him and he reclined upon a ledge. As he closed his eyes he thought about Div and La and the other souls he had once known in his existence as a slave and reflected on his amazing rise. It had all been his doing; no one else had been ambitious enough to attempt what he had done; he owed no one. But best of all, in his new chambers, he knew he was where he should be. And he was, for the time being, content.
* * * * *
The little tools were much too delicate and easily lost to be brought in her packs; they would have to be left behind for when she returned. When I return. That is a very odd thought. How many millennia will I be away? I have no idea, nor do I have any true notion of where I’m going. She put the tiny chisel down on the table, alongside its fellow tools. Lilith wondered, as she had for weeks, whether her departure from Adamantinarx was madness, whether her goals were as unclear as they seemed. She only knew that, with Sargatanas gone, she had no real reason to remain in a half-destroyed city. As the region’s new governor, Satanachia, was more than capable of administering to the rebuilding process. Someday, when she returned, she would find a beautiful city where souls and demons lived together in some form of equality. That was the dream. Her dream.
She would head out toward the Margins, bringing her tenets of hope to those souls in the smaller, remote cities who knew nothing of the rebellion. She knew that it was a dangerous mission, but she thought that, for the time being, it would take her mind off recent events. She was not bitter, simply tired, and the traveling might rehabilitate her. Hell was an unpredictable place, and as resourceful as she was, she would face its many hazards as a challenge. But she would not be completely unprepared.
She slid the long lid from a plain silver case that Eligor had brought to her and saw, lying upon the finest, iridescent Abyssal skin, Sargatanas’ sword, Lukiftias-pe-Ripesol. The tempering that had brought its souls together was impossible to break, and so a sword it would stay. In Sargatanas’ hand it had been light and deadly, but in hers it would be a two-handed weapon. While she was not so proficient in the Art Martial—what little she knew she had learned had been with Sargatanas—Lilith was comforted just knowing that it was coming with her. And she suspected there would be more than ample opportunity to work on the craft in the Wastes. She kept the sword wrapped in its skins and tied it to the outside of her pack, easily accessible but not obvious.
A rustling in the next room brought a smile to her face. The miracle of Sargatanas’ Passage had brought Ardat back to Lilith, and there was nothing short of destruction that would separate them ever again. Ardat appeared in the doorway wearing the skins Lilith had once worn, and her heart was filled with warmth for the handmaiden. It seemed Lilith’s world never stopped changing around her.
“Mistress, I have prepared your skins. Are you finished here?”
Lilith looked around her chambers, making sure everything was in order; she did not want to unseal them when she returned and find them in disarray. Her eyes fell back upon her small worktable and the two figures that stood upon it. One was the small bone figurine of herself, taken from the dome by Eligor. It was relatively crude—an example of her earliest work, executed before she had found her voice as a sculptor. Next to it was a p
iece she had only just finished, a representation of Sargatanas fashioned of many pieces of the purest white Abyssal bone that she had begun back in Dis. It was intricate and yet strong, a work of subtlety, grace, and power reflecting, she thought, all of his attributes, and she regarded it as her very best sculpture. Originally, she had planned to keep them together, but on impulse she picked them up, carefully wound a scrap of skin around them, and placed them in an outside pocket of her pack. She hoped Eligor would like them.
“Yes, Ardat, I am.”
Epilogue
When he put his quill down it was atop a large stack of neatly arranged leaves of parchment. It had taken him over two full cycles of Algol’s transit to complete his reminiscences, two cycles in which he had wandered far to collect the fullest accounts of the events surrounding Sargatanas’ Rebellion.
In that time, the palace, the city’s focal point and arguably most unharmed building in Adamantinarx, had been tirelessly repaired. No longer was it open to the tempests of Hell; no longer could he so easily hear the murmurings of passing demons through holes in the walls. He could hear the hammers of artisans—demon and soul alike—as they brought the wounded friezes back to life. Even now, he could see the barges heavy with native stone as they docked, manned by souls who wanted to work rather than had to. It was a new time in Hell.
The Rebellion was over and yet it continued on in its new reforms. While he was aware of the changes in those wards and cities that had been closest to the battles and survived, he also knew that there were many regions as yet unaffected. This, he thought, would take time. Already there were some who did not fully understand Sargatanas’ gift, who thought to simply take up arms and indiscriminately rid Hell of their own concept of evil. Theirs would be a long path.
As he thought of these changes, he also thought of Lilith and wondered where she might be. Somewhere, wandering the distant Wastes, undoubtedly. He had watched her leave the city, watched her as she and her handmaiden had boarded a barge on the Acheron, and watched, too, as the ship had disappeared into the ashy distance. And on his ascent up the Rule and back to his chambers he had thought about his lord, Sargatanas. It had all begun, the discontent and the dream, at the massive statue that still stood not too far from where he climbed.
Eligor sighed and straightened the stack of parchment leaves, placing the beautiful statuette of Sargatanas and the cruder one of Lilith atop them and donning his cloaks, and left his chambers to descend through the palace and out onto the Rule. The avenue was growing more crowded each day with a steady flow of workers and artisans, but it was not yet as bustling as it had once been. While there were very few buildings left, he walked the Rule out of habit, not necessity; only the sidewalks remained and he could have easily walked a more direct route, but he liked to see the city’s progress. He stopped a few times to observe the foundations of some new buildings being laid by souls and demons alike, but, distracted, he focused on the giant cruciform statue and headed toward it. When the city was at its height there would have been no chance of seeing its relatively low base, but now, with few buildings standing, he could see it still survived, an anomalous soul-brick structure in a city now growing only with native stone. Why, he wondered, had it not been taken down?
He walked steadily until he arrived at the foot of the stepped plinth. For just a moment he thought of that other plinth, the one from the Black Dome that he had had brought back to Adamantinarx and enshrined.
Slowly, he paced the base’s periphery until he came upon that which he had hoped to find. He put his hand upon the rugose brick and felt its warmth and then, suddenly, it opened a piercingly blue eye and stared up at him. For a moment their gaze met and then he sighed and stood up. He looked into the heavens and saw the equally blue star—the star they called Zimiah, the Gate—and knew what he would have to do. The statue would have to come down and the bricks of its base—this brick in particular—would have to be resurrected. That much, he knew, he owed his lord.
Acknowledgments
This book was, by any measure, an ambitious undertaking for me. There was not one moment during its creation that I was not certain I had made a terrible mistake in breaking away from painting and drawing to attempt it. During the arduous process of writing, however, I was bolstered by people both alive and dead, without whom I could never have finished the task. First and foremost among them was my wife, Shawna McCarthy, who told me more times than I can count that this was a journey that I was capable of completing. This book could never have been finished without her wisdom and unflagging encouragement, and my gratitude to her is total.
I must also thank my wonderful agent and friend, Russell Galen, for his continued support and valuable comments. Thanks must also go to my editor, Pat LoBrutto, who understood this project from the start and whose humor and insights into matters both heavenly and infernal were always welcome.
Thanks also to my great friend, TyRuben Ellingson, for his deep understanding of the labyrinth that is my creative mind.
God’s Demon would not exist but for the inspiration provided me by John Milton’s Paradise Lost. That work of genius, arguably the greatest poem written in the English language, set me on the path to first visualize Hell in artwork and then in writing. Like Dante’s Virgil, Milton’s spirit was a constant, guiding companion.
John Dee’s Complete Enochian Dictionary provided me with the basis for the language used throughout this book in both the pure “angelic” form and the somewhat corrupted “demonic” form. Dr. Dee’s unique work was derived from conversations he had in 1581 with two angels and, therefore, seemed to me authoritative.
To enrich your reading of God’s Demon with many of the images of Hell that I have created, please visit www.godsdemon.com.
Illustrations
Barlowe’s Inferno
Barlowe’s Inferno — (from Barlowe’s Inferno — acrylic on panel) — The unpredictable chaos of Hell is present even in the most advanced of its cities. Dis, like all of its sister cities, suffers from wrenching, deafening upheavals that tear through the city breaking away and sending archi-organic buildings high into the air. These float about, sometimes leaving the city’s wards entirely, making their way into the darkness of the Wastes where they are never seen again. Do they eventually land only to be in habited by Salamandrine Men or Abyssals? Few have ever found out and fewer still have survived to tell of it.
It was impossible for me to resist putting myself in the Hell that I created. Of course, I could not appear inappropriately whole and so, much like the demons themselves, I took up hook and tong and made myself suitable for place. When in Rome…
What Remains
What Remains — (unpublished — acrylic on Gessoboard) — As much as Hell is a place of unrelenting horror and savagery it is, too, a place of sadness. What else could a being once of Heaven feel than sadness finding itself in such an environment? And what more poignant, precious reminder of its former existence could it possess after its Fall than one of its own charred feathers?
Executing Hell paintings can be an exercise in pacing. After spending months completing very complex, detailed paintings I tend to gravitate towards simpler, more iconic compositions. This serves both to recharge my batteries and to force me to make more concise statements. To me the most difficult part of this painting’s concepting was whether or not to add a question mark after the title.
Sargatanas
Sargatanas — (from Barlowe’s Inferno, acrylic on ragboard) — A former seraph and now a Brigadier General and Demon Major of enormous power, Sargatanas was a hero in Lucifer’s War with Heaven. Since his Fall, he has established himself as one of the few demons capable of rivaling the Prince for control of Hell. GOD’S DEMON is his story.
There’s a lot of improvisation in this piece. I wanted to leave some of the organically flowing elements, especially around his metamorphic head, to chance, to let my paintbrush do the thinking, as it were. And I also wanted to let the paint, itself, flow a little mo
re freely to enhance the sense of dynamism this character has always had in my mind. Some have criticized my decision to go in a more “painterly” direction with the Hell pieces. To me it is not only a natural evolution for a painter to become freer and more expressive, but, in this case, the milieu does afford one the perfect opportunity to be a bit more evocative. It’s a case of adapting oneself to the subject matter.
Sargatanas Descending
Sargatanas Descending — (from Barlowe’s Inferno — acrylic on ragboard) — Like all Demons Major, Sargatanas is a metamorphic being. Because distances between cities in Hell are considerable — determined for the most part by where the most influential demons Fell — the need to travel quickly between them is rare. Nonetheless, demons like Sargatanas are capable of sprouting great fan-like wings that bear some resemblance to their former seraphic or cherubic wings for just such journeys. Nearly all semblance of anthropomorphism is lost in this demonic form. Here potent glyphs stream away from the wings’ trailing edges, glyphs that not only keep the demon aloft but also delineate territories and can carry commands to nearby airborne troops.
Even though he worked roughly two hundred years ago there is yet a transcendent majesty to William Blake’s vivid, mystical painting’s and etchings. His idiosyncratic style is still fresh and captivating and this painting is something of an homage to him. Blake was one of the most interesting artists and poets of his day and I would be remiss in not mentioning that he, too, fell under the spell of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, the single greatest influence on my Hell work.
Sargatanas Mutatis
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