Wayne Barlowe: God's Demon

“We could always lend him support, my lord…,” said Eligor.

“We have been, unbeknownst to the Prince, for the last two millennia,” interrupted Valefar. “But we cannot support his wards as well as our own. We are going to have to cut him off and he knows it. Times to come will not be easy for him.”

I see.

Valefar looked at Sargatanas, who sat, fingers steepled, and said evenly, “It might also create problems for us.”

Sargatanas rose and crossed the room to the large leaded-obsidian windows. He unlatched one and gazed out toward Astaroth’s ward. The wind was strong at this height; heavy parchments on Valefar’s desk began to stir.

“You, old proctor, are going to cause me a great deal of trouble,” Sargatanas said quietly, staring out into the distant clouds. A roiling storm was punishing the Wastes; red lightning scratched at the horizon. And then, resignedly, Sargatanas said, “Valefar, we must go to Dis. To discuss this in person with the Fly. It is too important to delegate to a messenger. We will leave Adamantinarx in the capable hands of Zoray. Along the way we can hunt a bit and bring some great trophy to the Prince as a token of our enormous high esteem. And you will come as well, Eligor. It has been too long since you were in the capital.”

“I am sure you missed it, eh?” smirked Valefar.

Eligor’s wide eyes rolled.

The soul who called himself Hani groaned as he tugged the sinew rope. It was tied to a giant block that scratched its way up the flagstoned dockside causeway, and Hani could see, past the dozens of souls who were, like him, straining against the rope, that it had moved only a few yards. They had been pulling for about an hour and their progress had been slower than usual.

The work-gang was shorthanded due to sudden attrition; at the last moment, as the inclined causeway was being completed, the demons had run out of bricks and had had to resort to incorporating some of the gang itself into the ramp.

Hani had knelt, eyes down, as he watched the grumbling demon Overseer’s sparking feet pass him by. Fear had bubbled up into his throat as he had contemplated the awful fate of being transformed; it was every soul’s worst fear. But he had been lucky; the demon moved away, selecting the soul two down from Hani instead. When there were some twenty souls assembled, the demons had taken them away, leaving Hani kneeling on the filthy flagstones, still not looking up but able to breathe again.

It was not the first time Hani had been lucky. He was tall and strong, sharp-eyed, clever, and not too ravaged by the Change. Lucky, he thought, but just how lucky could one stay in Hell?

Work resumed, but it was now staggeringly difficult. The twenty souls had made a huge difference, and Hani’s agonized limbs began to tremble uncontrollably. He tried to distract himself by focusing out toward the ghostly river with its sprinkling of barges. Once, he knew, the Acheron had been choked with heavy supply barges laden with exotic materials from the far-off quarries destined for the palace-mount. But that time had passed and now the building projects were more functional and pedestrian.

His tactic did Hani little good. The pain in his arms and hands only increased with every step; the tremors became more obvious. Then, as his continuing luck would have it, a great cloud of ash descended and obscured the work site. Hani groaned with relief as he let the rope slip from his shredded hands. The gang, as well as the incensed demons, was forced to stumble to shelter, the souls with their hands upon one another’s shoulders for guidance. He could just begin to feel the tattered flesh mend itself the way all small wounds did upon the souls. It might take an hour or two to completely heal if they had that much time to wait it out. The pain was enormous, but, Hani reflected as he had a million times, that was why he was here.

At the growled command of their Overseer the work-gang gathered in the lee-side of a monumental brazier so tall that neither its heat nor its light could be perceived through the blinding ash. Only the modicum of shelter that its plinth provided and the sound of its giant flame crackling and billowing gave proof of its existence. Through slitted eyes Hani tried to take stock of his fellow souls, trying to identify who had been taken. Those who remained were a ragged group, squatting on their haunches and huddled against the densely falling particles. There was Chaw, the swollen hedonist for whom work of any sort was torture. There, lying on her side, was La, the powerful female who only had one-half of a face, the other side having been rubbed completely smooth in some ancient construction mishap. She was always sharp-tongued and malicious. And next to her, kneeling on the branching limbs he called legs, was Div, a quiet, brooding male who liked watching the others get punished. Beyond them Hani could see only indistinct forms.

Hani looked back toward the Overseer; he, too, was crouched down, leaning on his whip-staff. He was facing away from the wind but also from the souls, and Hani felt safe enough to converse with his fellow workers. Infractions of any sort were always punishable by conversion into bricks. That ultimate threat, alone, was enough to maintain discipline among the most fractious of souls.

“Bad one,” Hani said, looking at Div, indicating the ashy wind with a quick shake of his head.

“Yes, but it’ll be over sooner than we’d like,” Div said fatalistically, picking a small piece of pumice from between his misshapen toes. “Aah, that’s better!”

“We need some new recruits. It’ll take us a year just to get that block up there.”

“Do I care?” Div was rubbing his foot.

“Not any more than me,” said Hani. “But they have a schedule to meet. Too many rest periods won’t sit well. And we would bear the brunt….”

They both knew what that meant. Hani ran his hand over the black orb they called the Burden that jutted, for the moment, from his left side. As they had been straining, the Overseer’s impatience could be measured by its increased stinging.

“So be it,” said Div, but Hani knew that was nothing more than idle bravado.

Hani debated opening the next topic. It was dangerous to let anyone else in on his secret, dangerous and unpredictable. But something was compelling him to share it, to bring others the message that had been brought to him.

“Do you remember me mentioning the visions I’ve been having?”

“It’s hard not to remember. Everyone knows when you’re having them. And they’re becoming more frequent, aren’t they?”

That disturbed him. If it was so apparent to the souls, was it equally obvious to the Overseers?

“Maybe.” He paused. “I think I know what is causing them.”

Hani brushed the ash off his hands as best he could, reached into a slit in his right side just under his ribs where a small pocket of flesh had formed. He looked nervously at the Overseer and back at Div. Revealing anything to either had its risks. The soul was not the brightest individual, nor the stupidest. In Hell, intelligence was a rare and true curse. It served as a lens to focus all of the pain and loss and misery upon its bearer in a way that the more mindless souls could not begin to understand. Most souls, Hani had long ago concluded, seemed in a trance, their minds skinned over by a veil of dullness. It was his mixed fortune not to be among them. Or maybe he simply was not as lucky as he thought.

He withdrew his hand from the cleft and he stared at the small, precious object for a moment, remembering how he had come by it. He and the work-gang had been walking up the congested Avenue of Fiery Tears, trying to stay together as they marched through the shuffling crowds. She had been walking toward him, alone, clad in unusually pale and hairless traveling skins, and, as he walked toward her, they had made eye contact. This had not been broken, even when she intentionally bumped into him, placing the object in his hand. His first reaction had been shock, followed nearly immediately by fear. He looked furtively around, making sure that no one had seen the transfer.