disappeared underneath. The hand that held the whetstone paused above the blade as a faint ring of luminous green limned Faraii's trembling eye. It lingered for a few seconds and then faded. Adramalik saw the hand still poised above the black blade and then saw it slowly dip down to finish the stroke. With each following moment the strokes became quicker, firmer, more assured.
Then, unexpectedly, the mask that had been the Baron's face cracked as the thinnest smile crept over his face, a smile not dissimilar from the one that had played upon Beelzebub's face only moments before.
Adramalik thought about that smile as he left the other demons and headed back to his rooms and grinned himself. Sargatanas, together with his few misguided followers, would soon be stopped, and Adamantinarx would lie broken. And the bitter Acheron would flow around a new city and the ash would fall and the smoke of the new fires would rise and Hell could go back, without contest, without distraction, to the primacy of punishment.
As Adramalik drew nearer to his chambers he remembered the delight that awaited him and felt himself growing excited, succumbing, once again, to the powers of the flesh. As tired as he was, he would finish what he had started with the creature. But upon arriving at his doors the Chancellor General noticed them unlatched and slightly ajar, and pushing them apart, he made his way deeper into his rooms with a growing haste and sense of misgiving. Only when he arrived at his bedchambers did he find his worst suspicions confirmed. Gnawed and bloodstained sinew ties lay upon the floor. The wretched Skin-peeler had somehow escaped, chewed through its bonds and slipped away to some recess of the Keep, undoubtedly well away by now. Or, perhaps, even now, was being used by one of his Knights; Adramalik would never know. Sadly, there was no one to butcher and bleed for the mistake; he could only curse himself for not locking the doors. It did not matter now, he thought with a resigned shake of his head; pleasure was always ephemeral. He lay down upon his pallet and when he closed his eyes he thought about Faraii, far away, sharpening his sword in the darkness.
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Lilith cried out in the night and sat up drawing the thick sleeping skins about her for comfort. She had been with Ardat Lili again, had been held in her warm, comforting embrace once again, and the dream's realism left Lilith panting, thinking that she was back in her bone-paneled chambers in Dis.
The room was cold and dank and she was clammy from her tossing about. She shucked off her covers and rose, the warm air caressing her bare skin as she crossed to the closed window. Unlatching it, she stood in the room's darkness, breathing in the warmer air and gazing out into the night at Adamantinarx, reassured that the world outside her had indeed changed.
A beautiful, ruddy fog had crept in off the Acheron to swathe the great city in soft, nocturnal mystery. She could not see the slow-flowing river or the distant quays that lined it. Nor could she see the city's walls or gates or even the barracks that were situated on the near side of the walls. What she could see was the flickering points of fire that sketched out the nearer streets and the indistinct shapes of spires and towers and statues that tentatively probed the sky, fearful in their wavering forms, it seemed to her, of vanishing into it.
The scuff of footsteps below her window caused her to lean forward and peer directly down at the expansive courtyard that lay, bordered by Adamantinarx's most important buildings, across the uppermost portion of the citadel. It served and would serve again, she had learned, in times of war as a gathering space and parade ground for Eligor's Flying Guard but was now empty of demons save for the curious procession of demons that she saw emerging slowly from within her own building.
A cohort of Foot Guard led by Lord Zoray marched slowly forth from the wide door followed by two heavily robed figures whom she thought she recognized as the Lords Eligor and Valefar. And directly behind them was a larger figure, also cloaked, that could only have been Sargatanas. Back, at last, from the battlefield of Maraak. More Foot Guard brought up the rear of the line of figures, and as she watched them begin to cross the courtyard Eligor turned suddenly and looked up toward her window. Lilith pulled back reflexively, hoping the darkness hid her paleness, and, upon an impulse, decided that she would follow them.
She had packed Ardat Lili's traveling skins, more as a reminder of her great loss than as a useful garment, but now she drew them on, grateful for their concealing folds. The scent of her handmaiden, still clinging to them, mingled with that of the Wastes. Lilith was still pulling the hood around her as she ran soundlessly along the corridor and down the wide stairs to the ground floor.
Lilith cautiously pulled the door open and saw that the spectral procession had nearly crossed the courtyard. She waited until they had disappeared behind the corner of a building before she ventured out into the fog. They had turned onto the street known as the Rule, which descended, arrow straight from the mount's crest, and eventually ended at the docks on the river's edge. This bolstered her confidence; still a newcomer to Adamantinarx, she dreaded trying to find her way about the city's countless twisting streets.
As she rounded onto the Rule she saw the small demon contingent already a hundred yards ahead, their swaying forms generalized by the fog. A progression of three-story buildings, each with an overhanging jetty, lined both sides of the street, dropping gradually until she could only discern their hair-topped roofs. Dozens of receding braziers, their diffused, orange glows like soft stars, lit the relatively narrow street as it descended in long steps. Few demons trod upon its worn and fog-slicked flagstones, but many souls were performing their regular and unending tasks, taking little or no notice that it was so late at night. Their torments knew no hours.
Lilith's clawed feet left dry prints upon the warm flagstones as she made her way down the street. She kept enough distance from the small procession as she felt was safe, but all the while she wondered, as they never seemed to arrive at any destination, just how far from the citadel they would go. Doubt began to slow her steps somewhat. This quiet mission of Sargatanas', surely it was of no concern to her. What would he say if he knew that he was being shadowed by her? They had not even seen each other since her arrival.
Something drove her on nonetheless. Perhaps, she worried, a part of her mind was intoxicated with her newfound freedom and this almost inexplicable adventure was, in some way, a reflection of her clouded judgment. Or maybe it was something about Sargatanas, himself.
She passed silent crowds of souls—specters that were made solid as she drew near, some carrying mortar or wheeling brick-carts made of bone or burdened with skins or tools or metal fittings for building. Some looked at her directly, but none penetrated her disguise. She returned their gaze, studying their misshapen faces and seeing in most the unmistakable mark of evil. Only a few among many seemed out of place, confused and terrified. Those, especially were her souls, the human beings she had spent her time in Hell caring for. As she looked from one to another she wondered whether she had placed her faith in the wrong cause and whether their redemption was unattainable.
She glanced up and recognized a pair of twisting, smoke-belching spires that rose from the Forges, a landmark that she knew marked the halfway point between the palace and the quays. Even through the mask of her skins she could smell the airborne residue of the smelters and dozens of weapon forges. The number of bone-carts carrying weapons to the barracks rose dramatically as she passed the grimy building.
Farther down the Rule, Lilith encountered the dwellings of skin stitchers, the long drying racks loaded with skins visible through their courtyards, as were the stacks of skinned souls that writhed slowly by the gutter. The low demons sat in small knots chanting in throaty whispers in time with their sewing. Two thick-set gristle-dogs suddenly bolted from one courtyard directly in front of her, grabbed the arm of one of the discarded souls, and began to noisily growl and snap at each other, their white eyes bulging. They managed to twist and tear it free,
