God's Demon

Chapter Twelve

For the first time that any demon could remember, Algol could be seen during the day in Hell’s troubled sky, blazing bright and luminous. Like a blood-filmed eye, Adramalik thought, staring out from his window in the uppermost level of the Keep. What did the Watchdog look down upon that engendered such anger?

The Chancellor General looked out at his city far below. Normally dark and lit only by patches of spontaneous random fires, it now looked painted with blood. Algol’s furious brush had daubed the roofs, the streets, the statues, the many-spired, huge edifices, and even the Keep itself in red. A world bathed in the blood of its souls. That, he thought, would be a more perfect world.

He found the vivid light beautiful, evocative, an artifact of the star so compelling that he sat on the window-ledge until Algol set. The city returned to its former self, dark and mysterious, its shades of black cloaking the horrors that he had helped create.

Eligor, too, watched the star set as he waited for Baron Faraii to join him. Its remarkable fading light turned the Acheron into a shimmering red snake sinuously meandering through the city. He looked down at the bricks of the dome’s parapet upon which he sat and saw a half-dozen souls’ eyes staring out, the ruddy light reflected sharply in their glassy surface. What were they thinking?

Eligor heard the distant flapping of wings and saw one of his patrols circling high above him. Evidence of what Sargatanas had called a heightened readiness. He turned and cast his eyes up at the enormous dome behind him. Giant braziers were inset into its curving, otherwise smooth wall, spaced evenly around and reminiscent of the flaming coronet that sometimes encircled Sargatanas’ head. At the moment, Eligor noted, they were an ineffective light source against the last rays of Algol.

The Baron was late, something that had been happening more and more frequently in the course of their meetings. Eligor wondered if there was some significance to this, whether it indicated a growing unwillingness on the Baron’s part to continue their discussions about his travels. He valued the talks, realizing at that moment just how much he would miss them if they ended. The Baron was a vivid storyteller and his wanderings made for compelling listening, but more than that, Eligor found the demon’s enigmatic personality fascinating. Faraii had proven himself time and again in the hundreds of wars he had fought in for Sargatanas; his weapons-skill and ferocity were unmatched and did not go unnoticed. Eventually, because of his indisputable prowess, his lord had seen fit to commission Faraii to create a special unit of shock troops composed of the most intimidating of Sargatanas’ newly fashioned legionaries. But, even with this honor, Faraii rarely spoke of his battlefield exploits, and this only lent more luster to Eligor’s opinion of him. Unconsciously Eligor clutched his vellum notebook and bone pen a bit tighter, as if they, too, might cease to be, along with the meetings.

He sat in a rare state of anticipation; this was the first time since Sargatanas’ amazing decision that Eligor would be alone with Faraii, and he was eager to hear the Baron’s thoughts away from the constraints of the court. The Baron was more than forthcoming about his journeys, but it was rare that he spoke of his own feelings.

Algol had just set when Eligor heard the light scrape of the Baron’s footsteps as he climbed the stairs that led to the balcony. Wearing his black Abyssal-spine sword on a decorated baldric, he was armored as commander of the Shock Troops. Broad, thick pieces of blackened and tempered bone overlay his segmented torso, each skillfully fit piece inlaid with obsidian and jet. Special vents edged the cuirass, allowing flames to lick outward in the heat of battle. Though Faraii’s was a lighter version of the armor his troops possessed, Eligor had seen how intimidating the effect could be.

“Eligor, I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” Faraii said. “I was drilling my troopers and time got away from me.”

“They are, without a doubt, the best trained of any troops in Hell,” Eligor said enthusiastically, “solely for their commander’s diligence.”

“Thank you. Coming from the Captain of the Flying Guard, that is high praise.”

Eligor smiled. He knew that his Guard was drilled as well, if not as often, but coming from Faraii the compliment was gratifying. Eligor also knew that while his winged Guard relied on speed and precision, Faraii’s heavy legionaries were a bludgeon, a nearly irresistible force upon the battlefield. Where the Guard was a lance, sharp and swift, the Shock Troops were Sargatanas’ hammer, prized and pampered for their brutality.

Eligor looked closely at Faraii’s breast-armor. “There is ash upon your chest. Are you injured?”

Faraii looked down and, indeed, a wide, dull pattern of ash clouded the high, black gloss of the armor.

“It is not mine, Eligor. One of the troopers got a bit too excited. I had to… correct him.”

Faraii unstrapped the long sword and, setting it beside him, sat down heavily on the parapet’s low wall. He looked out at the remaining sliver of Algol’s light as it sank behind the horizon. Eligor saw the weariness in his actions, the angle at which he held his hard, gaunt head.

“Our lord has chosen to place a heavy burden upon us all,” Faraii said, not taking his gaze from the city.

“We are at the start of something great, Faraii,” Eligor countered. “All great endeavors are a challenge.”

Faraii did not respond immediately but instead looked at his feet.

“I wonder if our lord truly knows what forces he may unleash.”

Eligor looked at the Baron.

“I am sure he knows exactly what he is starting,” Eligor said earnestly. “His powers and influence have never been greater. Believe me, this was not a decision that came easily. I stood beside him for days and nights while he considered it. He is certain the time is right.”

“What he is certain of, Eligor, is that he cannot stand another moment of this place and his subservient standing here. And this reminds me of someone else.”

“Really, Faraii, you cannot seriously compare—”

“Why not? From what I have heard there were few Demons Major as zealous as Sargatanas when it came to supporting Lucifer. And like him, our lord aches for something he cannot have.”

Eligor put the notebook and pen down beside him.

“We were all caught up in Lucifer’s rhetoric,” he said plainly. Something was clearly troubling the Baron. “Look around you, Faraii. We are all defined by this place, by the fire and the flesh. And the pain. We, like the souls, are Hell’s inmates. But we are also their jailers. Is this how you would choose to spend Eternity? As little more than an embittered jailer?”

“Perhaps,” Faraii said quietly, gloomily. “Is Sargatanas’ rhetoric all that different?”

“I thought that I knew you better than this, Baron.”

“I have seen enough of the Above.”

“Surely you have also seen enough of Hell.”

Faraii turned slowly to Eligor; his face, limned in faint, pulsing fire, was cast in deep shadow. Only the mask of tiny lights defined it. His metallic eyes glittered and Eligor, for just a moment, saw something in them just beneath the surface, something repressed. He felt an inexplicable sense of menace.

“More than you can imagine.” A tiny spark flew from Faraii’s nostril. The Baron closed his eyes and said, “I am sorry, my friend. I am tired and I would be lying to you if I said that I did not have doubts. I do, but I am also confident that Lord Sargatanas has matters well in hand.”

Relieved, Eligor sat back. He picked up his pen and notebook.

Faraii, seeing this, reached for his sword and stood up.

“I am sorry, Eligor, not tonight. I would just like to retire to my chambers. It has been a tiring day. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Of course, Faraii,” Eligor said, hoping that he had managed to conceal his disappointment.

Eligor returned his gaze out over Adamantinarx. When he looked back, a moment later, to where Faraii had stood, the Baron was gone.

A light storm blew embers down upon the streets before him. It was night and Hani took full advantage of the greater darkness to slip down the crowded streets unnoticed. The thoroughfares were only slightly less congested with souls than during the day, and he made an effort to blend in, to seem as though he were a member of the various bustling work-gangs.

Hani felt the solid weight of the Burden, which was, for now, fortunately, embedded in the small of his back. Had it been jutting from one of his legs or, worse, in a foot, he might not have been as reckless. Just one of the many things, he reflected, that had fallen into place, compelling him to break away, to attempt the utterly unthinkable.

A plan had begun to form while he had watched the demon lord. Div and the others had all seen Sargatanas kneel, but no one had seen why. They had listened intently, hours later, when Hani had told them what he had seen. And when he had sketched out his plan as best he could they looked at one another without expression. He could not discern whether they understood or merely thought him raving. Either way, he was going to leave; there simply was no point in trying to explain to them what he could not fully explain to himself; his inner vision was cloudy at best. He would attempt to confront the demon with the statue, if even for a moment, to simply ask him who he had once been. If it failed, he would be destroyed or worse, but he would have tried.

A few days after Sargatanas had left the construction site, the demons had lit the colossus’ head like a giant torch, scattering the Scourges who had been perched upon it. Gauging this as the perfect distraction, Hani had faded away into the crowd. Even he was amazed that it had worked.

Now, as he walked, he felt a raging frustration at having to match his pace to the slower, stumbling souls around him. Far up ahead, through the darkness and smoke and blowing embers, he saw the dim silhouette of the palace dome high atop the center mount, its pinpoints of flame marking its countless levels, and realized that it would take many hours to reach the palace. He did not have any idea what he would do once he was near its towering gates, but he trusted that he would find some way in.

When will the Overseers notice my absence? he thought, with a stab of fear, for the thousandth time since he had left. And when will my Burden betray me? He had seen what happened to souls when the black orb had been triggered, how they had dropped to the ground and, screaming, been incinerated from within by a single fiery glyph. Only gray ash had remained. It won’t happen to me… it won’t.

He moved on, looking into the faces of the souls as he passed them.

Rended, twisted, cleft, pierced, or severed. Eyeless, jawless, noseless, or even entirely faceless. This was humanity. Or most of it. Thrust into Hell by their own hand, by their irresistible weaknesses. This was what they had made of themselves. He felt neither sympathy nor disdain. Just an odd belonging that he was not sure felt very good.

War, it had been whispered, was again looming. Long files of legionaries and officers were everywhere, but he passed them confidently; they had no reason, as yet, to be looking for him. Once they knew he was missing it would not matter that he was surrounded by millions of souls just like him. The Burden would betray him. That was its purpose.

Hani pushed on in what he came to think of as an exercise not of stealth or speed but of patience. The milky Acheron vanished behind the blocks of low buildings as he walked farther up toward the city’s center. With all his walking, though, he was amazed at how the center mount never seemed any closer.

Sounds of torment emanated from within most of the low, featureless buildings along the avenue, sounds that Hani barely heard anymore. Most of the meaty exteriors were punctured by a window, and, as he passed these, everything from sobs to screams reached out onto the street. None of it shocked him; his work-gangs had labored in proximity to buildings like these frequently, and his own curiosity about their inhabitants had long ago been satisfied. These were simply the places where the worst souls were kept and punished, their torments in many cases gruesomely tailored to their crimes.

Hani looked ahead, trying to penetrate the clots of souls and legionaries and Scourges, and saw a contingent of demon phalangites some hundred feet away. Larger and more solid than most demons, they strode slowly through the crowds, long hand-pikes shouldered, intentionally trampling any hapless soul too slow to avoid them. In fact, Hani thought, it appeared that they were going out of their way to inflict damage on the crowd.

Hani decided to duck into the first open doorway that he could find; demons rarely entered domiciles. A procession of odd foreigners stumbled past him, eyeless, beating hand-drums and in some kind of chanting trance. Were they souls? He could not tell, but he used them to hunker behind nonetheless, entering the nearest building unseen.

Within the dimly lit cell the air was thick and foul, redolent of smoking flesh. Burning embers, the odor’s source, provided the only faint light. In the room’s center was a solitary seated figure. Oversized and gangrenous entrails spilled from within him, forming the seatlike pedestal to which he was forever affixed. A long stream of saliva descended from his mouth and onto his glistening, embedded arms.

He was moaning and it took a few moments for him to realize he was not alone.

“Who’s there?” the soul whispered, his voice strained and filled with pain. He tried to move his head, but large growths, arranged like a grotesque necklace, inhibited him. “I know you’re there… who are you?”

Hani ignored him.

“Why won’t you say something?” The soul began to sob, his body convulsing. The organs wobbled and Hani looked away.

“Shut up!”

“Ha,” he wheezed, “you’re in my cell and you tell me to shut up!”

Hani peered cautiously around the door frame. The phalangites were nearer, and he could clearly hear the cries of the pedestrians and their bones snapping underfoot. He pulled his head back in and turned to face the soul.

“There is a problem out on the street. I’ll be gone when it’s passed.”

“You’re a soul. What are you doing running around on your own?”

“That’s my business.”

The phalangites must be very close, Hani thought. Like waves breaking before the bow of a barge on the Acheron, he saw the crowd just outside begin to part, falling and crashing into one another in an effort to avoid being trampled.

Hani caught a glimpse of the phalangites’ armored thighs as they passed the low doorway.

“What’s happening out there?” the soul asked.

“A cohort of phala—”

“No, no, I don’t mean just now. I mean… I am hearing soldiers—lots of soldiers—passing.”

“There will be a war,” Hani said plainly.

“There is always war.”

“This is different. More troop movement. More urgency to it all. It all seems familiar, somehow.”

The soul’s sudden, snapping cough sent a chill down Hani’s spine. “Familiar?” he finally gasped weakly.

“The urgency, the excitement of war. I know this feeling. And seeing all those troops…” Hani’s voice trailed off. The stirrings of his Life were tantalizing, and their wisps were never to be ignored. A series of the most fleeting impressions passed through his mind: a vast, blue sea of water dotted with strange ships, men—not souls—in burnished cuirasses holding swords and spears, and then a field of death with red-washed bodies piled eye high. What it meant Hani could not imagine. But he tucked the memories away, next to the others he had made a mental catalog of. Next to the little statue, they were his most treasured possessions.

“Are you still there?” Hani heard the desperation, the plaintiveness, in the soul’s voice; he might have been the soul’s first visitor in millennia. The loneliness was incomprehensible.

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t leave. Talk with me for a bit. It’s been so long. Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”

Hani backed silently toward the door and then turned and looked out. The street, uncharacteristically silent save for the moans, was painted in fresh, slick blood and crushed souls, many of whom were dragging themselves toward the doorways. Long, wet footprints, like brushstrokes, trailed off in the direction the phalangites had taken.

As he crossed the threshold and walked away from the domicile he could feel the soul’s fading, whispered entreaties clawing at his conscience, compelling him to stay. He set his jaw, looked up at the palace, and picked his way through the sliding bodies.

Some miles later, the avenue regained its former aspect, the crowds merely stepping over any residue from the phalangites’ passing. The thoroughfare dipped down and Hani faded behind a caravan of lumbering soul-beasts draped in billowing concealing blankets and laden with goods, led by robed guides and destined for the palace. And once again, walking alongside the enormous creatures, he felt that strange stirring of memory. He knew that he had lived before, but as with all souls, that Life and its memories were still opaque. A mystery. As he hid amidst the shuffling creatures’ legs, an ember of optimism brightened, fanned by the awareness that he might actually recover his memories, that he might come to know who he had been. He did not know what forces were at play or whether any of these new feelings were due to his possessing the tiny statue. Before he had acquired it there been no such sudden flashes. With a pang of awareness, Hani realized that something had changed, that he was regaining a sense of self that had been forcibly taken from him and that the memories might be a part of some regrowth. It was a brightening thought that he almost dared not to contemplate, but, despite himself, it drove him onward with a growing sense of expectation.