Wayne Barlowe - God's Demon

“No, dear friend, no. You’ve given them hope where there was none. The Gates are now opened and it is for them to find their own way back.”

Valefar came toward the three demons. He knelt and took Sargatanas’ hand from Eligor’s arm. He leaned in close to Sargatanas’ ear.

“Rise, Sargatanas,” he whispered. “Rise and reawaken.”

Eligor felt a gathering wind begin to swirl around his lord and watched it focus upon and erode his body until only the vaguest shape of the Demon Major lay outlined on the cracked and windswept plinth. An enormous pulse of energy exploded from the plinth, expanding outward until it hit the far walls of the Rotunda. The countless skins that had hung for so long from the dome’s ceiling and were now draped about and under the rubble began to stir, to fill out and take shape as the souls they had once been.

The wind subsided. Of Sargatanas’ body very little was left. In its place a radiance formed and became a brilliance that, in turn, became substance, and Eligor saw Sargatanas as he had been from before the Fall. Gone were the trappings of Hell, the flesh-robes and bone-plates and flames above his head, replaced now by the supple, golden flesh, wings, and pearlescent raiments of Heaven. Slowly, the Seraph sat upright and rose to his feet. He bent and picked up his flaming sword.

“Leave it behind, Sargatanas,” Valefar said. “You will not be needing it.”

Sargatanas nodded, regarding the blade, and then held it out to Eligor. The demon took it and held it closely, reverently. He dropped to one knee and Sargatanas put his hand on Eligor’s shoulder.

“Follow me, Eligor. Heaven will shine brighter for your presence.”

“I will, my lord. I promise.”

Sargatanas turned away and Eligor heard Valefar say to him, “Come, my friend; it is time to go home.”

One by one, the seven Seraphim extended their wings and launched themselves into the air. Before they reached halfway to the dome’s broken opening they had each flared into a dazzling concentration of light and, like wayward stars returning to the firmament, shot up through the clouds.

Clutching the sword, Eligor stared up into the dark sky of Hell for some time, waiting until the lambency of his lord’s passage had faded. But, to Eligor’s amazement, a blue-white spot remained, fixed and brilliant, visible between the scudding clouds. A new star! To Eligor, it was the perfect symbol of the hope that now lay before them.

When he brought his gaze down, the Flying Guard was dispersing, undoubtedly to pursue the remnants of the Fly’s legions, and only Metaphrax remained. He, like Eligor, was silent, affected. He turned with a stunned, halfhearted wave and followed the troops out of the Rotunda.

Eligor looked at the plinth, at the spot where his lord had lain. A handful of light, clumped ash remained roughly where his hand had been—and something else. Reaching down, Eligor pushed the ashes gently, reverently, aside and pulled from them a small, white figurine. Lilith. It had been in Sargatanas’ closed hand all the while.

The Keep would be razed. That much the soul knew as he made his way up flight after flight of its dank steps.

The fighting had been over for some time—long enough for Hannibal to send back to Adamantinarx for some of his personal possessions. Swinging upon his back was a large Abyssal-hide pack, filled with everything he would need for a prolonged stay.

His souls had suffered great losses but had, too, attained a stature among the demons that they could have never hoped for before the rebellion. With Beelzebub gone, the souls were in a good position to reach for freedoms unheard of since Hell had been founded. And Hannibal was in a position to ask for power he could never have dreamt of. He would ask for, and take, it all.

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.