pleasure. As he made his way out of the capital, he found himself looking at the passing succession of familiar landmarks as one who was, at long last, bidding them farewell, a conflicting mixture of euphoria and melancholia washing through him.
THE WASTES
The ground screamed behind them as the army headed toward Adamantinarx, making its way through terrain that had grown rougher and more difficult the farther from Dis it marched. The ancient trackway to Adamantinarx had been disused for a very long time and had become overgrown, the sliced flesh of the old roadbed cuts having filled in considerably in the millennia. But, Adramalik could see, it was essentially still there, the roads remaining clearer in most cases than the tunnels, which were frequently tangled with heavy-branched, arterial trees and tangles of intertwined, venous growth. Small obstructions had been chopped away by the pioneers in the vanguard, but eventually the enormous ribbon that was the army reached the first foothills, low and rolling and grown higher since the road had been cut. Adramalik had watched as the blunt-headed Maws—faster and more precise than the lumbering Demolishers—had been brought forth and had been set upon the landscape amidst a chorus of gnashing teeth and screaming groundswells. Enlarged and attenuated into long tubular shapes and then bound tightly together by the hundreds, the soul-bundles chewed through the fleshy landscape, clearing the straight trek so characteristic of Dis' relentless generals—the arrow-straight path that almost symbolically allowed for no obstacles. Adramalik knew the fields would heal, that the capricious slashings of the soldiers' weapons and the gnawed roadway would scab over eventually, but for the moment, as they made their way through the frontier, he would enjoy the choir of shrill screams that the ground gave voice to.
* * * * *
On the third week of their march the army came upon a wide, gurgling river of blood, which had, long ago, been spanned by a thick-pillared bridge, but while the pillars remained erect, the broad roadway had fallen, forcing the soldiers to ford through the fast-moving currents. The mounted battalions had no difficulty negotiating the river, but the legions were momentarily thrown into disarray as the currents churned and shifted. Stained a glistening, deep red, they climbed the far banks and veered back onto the old road. Here the ground was aflame and the black smoke billowed in huge, shifting sheets. Peering into the gloom, Adramalik saw vague shapes, gigantic Abyssals that concealed themselves in the smoke and dogged the columns, watching hopefully for any small scout detachment to stray too far from the protection of the army. Theirs would be a swift end, signaled only by the sudden flare of lights in the darkness. The Chancellor General knew that few, if any, of the mounted scouts would be foolhardy enough to lose sight of the column.
Without rest the army marched, straight through the wilds of the frontier, through the noisy fields of indifferent Sag-hrim and their Psychemancers, past the towering and floating stelae bearing gigantic sculpted fly heads that marked the border of Beelzebub's realm. Beyond them, through the wide Wastes and past Astaroth's broken realm, lay the wards of Sargatanas' kingdom, a rich prize that the Prince would easily wrest from the upstart Demon Major.
THE FLAMING CUT
The outpost, a low, jagged silhouette of broken buildings, was situated between two long, flaming ridges. It was not on any map that Adramalik had seen back in the chart-rooms of Dis, but that, he knew, meant nothing; those floating maps had been drawn and redrawn dozens of centuries ago, and with relations growing strained between the two cities surveyors had not been sent out since. The ridges may not have even been aflame back then. Or, he thought, perhaps this was simply a convenient roosting spot for the abandoned buildings that had been cut from the city and had floated into the wilds.
Adramalik followed as Moloch and the staff entered the empty town. Old weapons, swords, long spears, and hatchets lay about everywhere, some in piles, others strewn randomly amidst the rubble. How old they were or why they had been left behind Adramalik could not begin to guess.
The light wind that had been easy to ignore picked up and grew turbulent, blowing ash in thick swirls that seemed alive in their determination to attack the warriors; some thought they saw the telltale tendrils of glyphs woven into the shifting fabric of the clouds. Aware that the winds whipping in from over his wards might be an artifice of Sargatanas', Moloch's legions took a full day, under the slitted, watchful eyes of their leaders, to pass cautiously through and around the town, flowing down into the valley between the ridges like a dark and viscous liquid. There, as they built their fortified camp, each of them saw the distant lights of Sargatanas' encamped army, a broad and incandescent swath of fires and picket-sigils that stretched into the distant gloom. Flanked by his two Knight-Brigadiers, Melphagor the Primus and Salabrus, Adramalik stared into the carpet of light and tried to gauge the strength of the opposing force but found that it was impossible due to the obscuring clouds.
'They have no idea what they face, Chancellor General,' Melphagor said in his hoarse voice, relishing the thought. Wisps of fire flicked at the burned corners of his mouth. 'Sargatanas is as misguided as he is indecisive.'
'I have
'Yes, and Moloch is no mere general. Are you doubtful of our coming success, Adramalik?'
Adramalik's eyes narrowed. This was no time for the shadow of suspicion to fall upon him. Not with the prize so close. His trust for the Brigadier was significant, born in battle and in the Keep. But trust, in Hell, went only so far, and Adramalik's was a coveted position.
'Not in the least,' he said smoothly. 'I am simply saying, Melphagor, that while we may have greater losses than the Prince or Moloch expect, the battle's outcome has
Melphagor smiled, seemingly satisfied.
A squadron of pinpoint lights, winged scouts keeping watch, banked across the sky over the enemy encampment.
He turned back to the growing camp and was rewarded with the sight of dozens of their own protective picket-sigils blazing to life with a loud hiss. They would not withstand Sargatanas himself but would, at least, slow him down were he to be foolish enough to attack them where they were en-camped. Adramalik looked at the two scarlet-swathed field officers and knew that what he was about to say would appeal to them.
'I want both of you to understand something. Moloch's personal protection is Moloch's business. If he has any bodyguard at all, it is little concern of ours.
The two brigadiers nodded curtly, hands flat to their chests, claws extended outward in salute. Adramalik saw their predictable and savage grins and knew that they would relish spreading the word to all their fellow Knights; there was no loyalty to be had for the ex-god. As powerful as he was, Moloch would have to be very careful indeed to survive an enemy assault upon his person. And survive he might, but the Chancellor General vowed it would not knowingly be with his aid or that of his Knights.
