DIS
Two of Satanachia's battlefield Conjurors were waiting at the Belt's edge when Hannibal and Mago arrived at the head of their army. Without ceremony they created their glyphs-of-conversion and proceeded to transform the front ranks of souls and almost instantly a cry went up from the surrounding multitude that was near. The demon legionaries on either side of the ramp's foot had been given orders to act as both a screen and a funnel, keeping the vast majority of the soul army oblivious to the construction that was under way. When suspicions grew, Hannibal reassured his officers that the souls being used would be converted back at the end of the battle. But he knew that it was a hollow promise; much depended upon who would be victorious, and the souls that were converted were losing any chance they might have had to flee if the battle went to the army of Dis. Shouts of anger filled his ears.
Forced at spear point, the souls that had been impressed dropped their weapons in a long running pile that followed the construction. The relationship between souls and demons had changed in mere moments; allies in battle had reverted to oppressors and victims.
Mago's expression was disbelieving, sour. Clearly, Hannibal saw, his brother disapproved of the treatment of the souls, of the reversion to their Infernal use, of his promise broken. But if there was one thing Hannibal knew, it was that once his mind had been made up there was no turning back. And now that it had, he marveled at how what had initially seemed a treacherous act against the souls now seemed to him like the greatest of opportunities. A twinge of terrific pain lanced through his shoulder, and as he saw the ramp's foundation being laid he reached under his cloak and massaged the growing, tingling stump of his arm.
* * * * *
The cry went up, barely audible over the wind, from one of the six hammer-gangs attempting to breach the Dome, ending Eligor's ineffectual attempts to see the battlefield below Waist-deep in the heavily bleeding hole they had excavated, they were shouting that they were nearly through the dense, howling soul-brick exterior. Eligor flew to them and landed inside the shallow, inclined crater, his excitement mixed with a numbing sense of dread. To enter the Dome was to see Sargatanas' vision through, to either lose him forever or watch him be crushed. Neither prospect appealed to the demon.
He was hovering overhead with his picked assault team when the inevitable hammer-strike bit through the Black Dome's roof. Strong hands held on to the heavy, protesting brick, lifting it out of the way, careful not to let it fall into the vast chamber below. Behind them, a hundred lance points directed at the hole awaited anything that might emerge from within, but only a dismal gloom, barely lighter than the surrounding dome, was visible. Even with the fierce winds he could smell the raw odor of the building's interior, a heavy stink of decay that made him curl his lips.
It seemed that no sooner had he sent his glyph off to alert Sargatanas than the Demon Major appeared in a flurry of sigils, glyphs, and spreading white wings. The intensity in his eyes was unmistakable as he peered into the hole and Eligor saw him reach down and, along with the Flying Guard, begin to pry away the heavy bricks at the rim of the hole. After an hour, the opening was enlarged sufficiently that three demons with wings extended could pass through at once—wide enough that the attack could begin.
Eligor looked away from the hole, and by chance, for an instant, his eyes met Sargatanas'. No words were spoken, but the bond that had existed between them for so long, the tie between teacher and apprentice, the tie between ancient friends, held them. The wind suddenly grew stiffer and there was no chance either could have heard the other, but Eligor saw Sargatanas smile, pull his sword—the sword Valefar had kept for him—from its sheath, and mouth the words,
The moment he passed through the opening and began to drop he, like Sargatanas ahead of him, began to chop away at the myriad obstructing skins that hung from the cavernous dome-ceiling and clearing a vertical path for the flyers behind. The skins twisted and curled, agitated from either fright or the distant awareness of the battle far below, and each time Eligor slashed a rafter away he heard them cry out. They fell by the fluttering dozens, but not as fast as the demons' diving descent, and when Eligor saw Sargatanas break free of the hangings, the blue-flame sword—his old sword—was pointing straight and true at the throne beneath them.
Eligor looked down past his lord's broad wings at the approaching Rotunda's floor and clenched his jaw; the Fly's troops were tearing wide the sphincter-threshold and streaming in from the one main corridor.
Sargatanas pulled up just short of the top of the throne, but as Eligor sailed past him, followed by his Guard, he could not tell what his lord found atop the stinking mound. Eligor and his Guard slammed into the assembled legionaries with enough force to drive most of the standing demons to their knees. Ranks of the demons sprawled momentarily in the soup of blood and meat that filled the floor of the Rotunda. The Knights, however, managed to remain standing, having powerful, protective glyphs floating above, and with booming voices they rallied the Janissaries. A clot of them, flaming swords at the ready, surrounded something or someone, and when they parted Eligor saw, with dismay, that which had once been Baron Faraii. He stood with black blade bared and ebony armored as always, but his formerly gaunt body was now perforated in a thousand spots, hollowed as if there was nothing within. Tiny Abyssal worms played upon and through him, and these revolted Eligor. Faraii turned his pitted head, his one remaining eye glaring, and raised his sword toward Eligor and the onrushing demons.
Eligor and Barbatos knew that to alight was to lose the one advantage they had over their numerically superior opponents; this lesson had been learned many ages ago. They and their troops would fly until they had destroyed the enemy or were forced down. Both Demons Minor led their flyers in broad, sweeping passes that enabled their flights to thrust with their lances in well-practiced maneuvers.
Through the still-falling skins and the jabbing spears from below, Eligor stole as many glances at the throne as he could safely manage. At first, it seemed as if his lord was only hovering above the vacant seat looking about for the Fly, but in a fleeting glimpse Eligor saw the Demon Major wrenching away his flight skins and preparing himself in ways he had never seen before. No longer fully winged, Sargatanas' body was exuding an intricate interlocking armor that glistened pure white in the ruddy haze of the Rotunda. But Eligor was not able to see the transformation through; the hooked spears of the Keep's Janissaries were bringing down more of his flyers than he liked and he could not linger to watch his lord. With their growing experience against the Flying Guards' tactics, the Knights were now lashing out with powerful glyph-bolts that were nearly impossible for the tightly packed flyers to dodge. Eligor's fear that they would have to engage the enemy on the ground seemed to be coming to pass.
Eligor worked his lance calmly; oddly, the battle-Passion had not overtaken him yet. Perhaps, he thought, it was some of Faraii's training finally having effect. The Janissaries were formidable but predictable warriors, and unlike his flyers, he found dispatching them not nearly as difficult as he might have feared. He knew his presence bolstered his Guard and knew, too, that as they flew and fought they were watching his composure, the very way
