Wayne Barlowe - God's Demon

Satanachia stopped before Hannibal and patted away some imaginary ash from his immaculate armor. The splendid multicolored sigils that floated over his breastplate shone upon three new disks, talismans of hard fighting against hard foes. Hannibal wondered how the looming demon could appear so composed and, in contrast to Field Marshal Orus and the rest of his retinue, so clear of ash and blood.

“Well done, Hannibal. We are close now, eh?”

“Close enough for me to smell the rot from inside.”

“We will cleanse it with sword and fire; of that you can be sure.”

“And then?”

The gate sagged with a terrific groan. More blows revealed more of the dimly lit interior of the vestibule beyond. Weapons could be seen glittering in the hands of barely seen legionaries.

“And then we will take it down… the whole Keep… and start anew. It is Sargatanas’ wish.”

“That will take centuries.”

“Time is something, with luck, we will have.”

Four simultaneous deafening hammer-blows knocked the immense gate inward and the Behemoths lurched forward and over the twisted hinges, entering the vestibule and grinding the front ranks of enemy legionaries underfoot. A reverberating cheer went up from all who could see the portal’s collapse. A rain of attacking glyphs met the Behemoths, stopping them for the moment; they would not be able to go too far into the Keep anyway, Hannibal knew. The corridors leading up to the palace were intentionally cramped for just that purpose.

Satanachia, a pale mountain of fury, leaped past Hannibal and disappeared between the pillarlike legs of the huge souls, followed by Orus and a steady stream of legionaries. Hannibal saw his souls far below being passed by the demon legionaries and saw, too, their indecision. If he was to have sway over them it would come from this moment. He raised his sword.

“Follow me,” he shouted hoarsely in the souls’ language, “ or forever be their slaves!” He turned and sprinted for the entrance.

As he jumped over the wreckage of the hinge he stole a glance backward. Those souls who had been able to hear him—souls who had been earmarked to be converted—were taking up weapons from the long pile and running after him. What real choice did they have? he thought. They could fight and take their chances, either being destroyed or sharing in the victory, or they could resist and suffer the fate of insurrectionists. Or they could run and take their chances with the hungry Abyssals. Hannibal knew which alternative he would choose.

Just behind Satanachia, Hannibal was able to witness the whirlwind of destruction the Demon Major had become. Common legionaries could not stand before him and were obliterated by the dozens as they progressed through the narrow confines of the vestibule. Hannibal heard Satanachia’s breathing, deep and echoing, as he worked his sword from side to side. It would be a long trek upward through the Keep’s innumerable halls and corridors, but watching the fallen angel before him, he felt little doubt they would make it. He was dubious that they would arrive at the Rotunda in time to aid Sargatanas and Eligor, but at least they would divert enough of the Fly’s troops away from that battle to make a difference.

Hannibal threw himself into the fighting with renewed energy. Satanachia inspired him and he unconsciously began to emulate some of the Demon Major’s sword moves. After a few halls had been cleared, Hannibal’s confidence had grown along with his identification with the demon. No matter what the outcome in the Rotunda many levels above, Hannibal would be sure to be at Satanachia’s side when it unfolded.

“It has been too long since we last held counsel, Demon Major. What has made you so… restless?”

Deliberate in his movements, Beelzebub calmly stood atop his throne, adjusting the long cloak that hung from his lean form. He had adopted the mien of a regal and aloof being, thin and armored in his customary carapace, his multieyed head disturbingly flylike. Four enormous iridescent wings, unlike any others in Hell, projected behind his cloak. Churning within the angry masses of flies in his torso like an ever-moving luminous skeleton were ill-seen skeins of glyphs and sigils, the accumulated wisdom and horror that defined the Regent of Hell.

“I could not let go of my past as easily as some,” Eligor heard Sargatanas answer in the language of the Above.

“That may be,” Beelzebub said, “but you know They do not want you back. And I certainly do not want you here, so what will you do?”

The heavy armor that Eligor had seen forming when Sargatanas first arrived at the Black Dome was fully congealed upon his body, armor so similar to that from Above, painfully white and strangely reflective. But the demon’s protection was not yet complete. Another layer, a mail of glyphs, was beginning to emerge as tiny, growing embers.

“I will do what I must to gain the Throne’s acceptance. I will show the demons of Hell that they can be forgiven, that they can, if they choose, go back.”

Beelzebub nodded slowly as if in resignation and then Eligor saw a sudden torrent of glyphs pour forth from the figure of flies with such force that Sargatanas was lifted and driven backward, his fanlike wings clawing at the air. Eligor saw his lord flinching and grimacing and could only think that it had been sublime madness for the Demon Major to presume that he could confront the Prince. His were powers unthinkable to demons.

Ever so slowly under the stress of the relentless onslaught, Sargatanas’ glyph-mail finally came together. Hundreds of the protective glyphs merged across his entire body to cover him in a continuous interwoven blanket, a blanket that deflected the majority of the lethal projectiles. And equally slowly the demon descended, flaming sword outstretched, until he was nearly within arm’s reach of the Fly.

Sargatanas suddenly leaned in and swept his fiery blade out and through Beelzebub’s writhing neck and Eligor saw how those flies it touched flared briefly into blue-green flame and were extinguished. But the neck had parted of its own volition and when it came back together it appeared to be unharmed. The seraph sword had cleaved nothing. Time and again Sargatanas arced his blade through the body of shifting flies, weaving it through the black, buzzing motes and pulling it back, only to see a small number destroyed and the remainder rearranging themselves as they had been. Beelzebub’s stance remained unchanged.

Eligor, unable to take his eyes from the unfolding duel, began, unsurprisingly, to hear the battle on the floor slowly, fitfully, resume. The dull sound of tens, hundreds, then thousands of weapons clashing rose in his ears like the beginnings of an avalanche, slow and gathering, until, once again, it filled the Rotunda. He cast a command-glyph to Metaphrax and watched a squadron of his Guard detach themselves from the hovering squadrons of demons and bank away to attack the Knight Chancellor General Adramalik and those around him. So eager was his lieutenant to fight the guardians of the Keep that Eligor knew he would have happily spearheaded the diving attack on twice their numbers. And this delegation of duty, Eligor thought a bit selfishly, would allow him, for the moment at least, to watch his lord.

Sargatanas drew back and Eligor saw a complicated glyph-weapon form in his free hand, a barbed device the color of which shifted like a crystal-prism. It was, he guessed, a gift of the destroyed Pyromancer Furcas, but as Sargatanas pulled his hand back to cast it, Beelzebub struck out with a stream of dark flies and engulfed it, smothering the burning weapon before the Demon Major even had a chance to throw it. The Fly hissed in unmistakable disgust and turned his back. Eligor knew this made no difference whatsoever in Beelzebub’s defense, knew that his eyes were everywhere on his person, but saw how the gesture of arrogant diffidence, the symbolism of casual superiority, confounded Sargatanas, who flailed his sword in impotent rage.