God's Demon - Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

God's Demon

Wayne Barlowe

Contents

[

note from dongquang: I inserted 22 illustrations by Wayne Barlowe, including his notes. The images were copied from his website (

http://www.waynebarlowe.com

). Please re-arrange them at the places you feel most approriate. Those amazing illustrations should make the reading experience all the more enjoyable. Cheers! And a big thank you to whoever scanned this book!!

]

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Copyright

For Shawna

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.

"Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,"

Said then the Lost Archangel, "this the seat

That we must change for Heav'n, this mournful gloom

For that celestial light?"

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

Prologue

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...

Ash fell from a sky of umber darkness, softening the jagged chaos of the world below his open window. It obscured his vision so that he could barely discern the distant, broken towers he knew to be there. Only the star Algol, ever burning, ever watchful, managed to pierce the dark clouds and tint his room with a subtle ruddy glow. Eligor sat motionless, as he could for hours, watching the flakes drift down, and thought it fitting that they should come so heavily. He watched the tiny laborers far below, as they tirelessly rebuilt the shattered city of Adamantinarx. The ash fell peacefully; no burning wind played upon its slow descent and so Eligor could write without having to clear his desk every few minutes.

WATCHTOWER

He wrote in ferocious bursts, punctuated only by his countless interviews and his moments of reverie. He wrote because he felt that he had to, and when he wrote it was in the script of angels. Because now it was permitted. The script had come fitfully, at first; it had been so long since he had written in it. The long strokes of his precious quill pen had been just a little too precise, the terminating circles a little too crabbed. But eventually he loosened up, remembering his way, and the letters flew from his pen like lightning. Soon the events of the not-so-distant past were flowing freely and the story of the last days of his lord, Sargatanas, took shape.

Eligor barely remembered the flight from the battlefield back to the palace. He had only the vague impression of passing through the shredded clouds of war with his troops, an elite squadron of Flying Guards, and of being so weary that he could barely stay aloft. There was too much to say between them, and therefore no one said anything.

Beneath him the clouds had parted to reveal the dark landscape. From their altitude the world looked as it always had. Vast olive-brown plains, like sheets of skin, rended and folded, were cut by flowing, incandescent rivers of lava and pocked by scattered outposts, pincushioned with fiery-tipped towers. The fires of Hell still blazed, at least, and Eligor had tried to convince himself that all was as it had been.

On they flew, their spirits beginning to lift, but when they entered Sargatanas' wards all their fantasies vanished. There were virtually no intact buildings to be seen, so complete had been the need for the city's bricks, for its souls. Where once had been laid out a vast and bustling city there now was a dismal grid of tumbled blocks and foundations. Like some newly excavated ruin, the city of Adamantinarx lay exposed and broken, its empty streets only discernible with the greatest effort. Colossal statues stood tilted upon pillaged pedestals, ornamental columns were strewn like broken bones across avenues, and the once-active river harbor was submerged for many blocks in the absence of its former embankment.

Sargatanas' palace had fared little better. Looming up from the mount in the city's center, it looked dark and ominous. The immense, domed building was pierced in a thousand places, its walls ravaged for their bricks, allowing the wind, cinders, and ash to move freely within. Eligor closed his eyes when he first saw the palace. Here was the home of his lord, abandoned and subject to the fury of Hell's fierce elements. Empty.

Eligor and his traveling companions alighted upon the rim of the dome's oculus and, wings folded, peered down into the once-great Audience Chamber. Nothing could be seen.