Adramalik knew everything about this fellow. Lord Agaliarept and he had left no stone unturned in their investigation of him. His had been a truly remarkable journey, beginning with an impact in Hell that put him far from every other demon who had landed. He had landed so far out on Hell's fringe that, after wandering alone for millennia, he had taken up with the enigmatic Salamandrine Men. There he had learned to survive in the Wastes, to hunt Abyssals of all description, to adorn himself with their glowing stalks and pelts, and to use them as a native would. His weapons skills, which drew heavily on patterns and moves from the Waste dwellers' craft, would be far beyond those of the other Knights. And he had a look to him that was intelligent and more than a little wild, due in part to a single, glowing Abyssal stalk that he'd thrust into his smooth skull. He was highly adaptable and had learned the ways of the court quickly and was quiet at the right times. Adramalik, who thought of him as something of a personal protege, knew that he would serve the Order well.
SALAMANDRINE MAN - (Painter IX) - I discovered a reference to the Salamandrine Men or Men of Wrath in an old book and was immediately intrigued. I decided to transform them into the indigenous peoples of Hell, there long before the demons Fell and the Inferno was populated by the damned. I see them as fierce fighters, tribal and semi-nomadic, hunting Abyssals and waging a constant battle against not only the extreme elements of the Wastes but, also, the demons and souls. Aware that their era is coming to a close, their heightened bitterness compels them to acts of wanton aggression against any intruders who stray into their territories.
Coinciding with Adramalik's arrival, the gathered demons began to hear a faint buzzing that seemed to emanate from between the thousands of skins that hung from the domed ceiling. These skins hung from an intricate webwork of sinew, swaying as if caught in a gentle breeze, but no breeze, no cleansing balm, had ever filtered through the windowless chamber. The movement was created by the soul-skins themselves, rippling and contorting and trying futilely to free themselves from their captivity. Adramalik had sometimes come upon Beelzebub as he sat gazing up at their rustling dance and giggling softly, unaware that he was being watched.
The buzzing grew louder; in moments Beelzebub would assume his throne. Some of the demons shifted uneasily, but the initiate looked upward without a trace of apprehension. Adramalik thought again that he had chosen well.
Chapter Three
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
There could be no day or night in Hell. What was regarded as day would have been as twilight in any other place. Only red Algol, which some regarded as the Above's Watchdog, could be used as any true measure of Time. It scratched its lonely path through the blackness at intervals regular enough to be measured and useful, and it was the wan star's pallid rise that heralded the day. Its light affected nothing.
When Algol finally rose over Sargatanas' finished palace, many millennia had passed. Its spire-ringed dome, now empty of the thousand winged workers, reared up over the city like a mighty mountain peak. The Audience Chamber within had no rival for its dark architectural beauty. Sargatanas' aesthetic had been so sublime and its execution by Halphas so deft that when he first entered the chamber Eligor nearly forgot that he was in Hell. Mineral resources from all over Hell had been brought together, floated on barges down the Acheron, and used with such craft and subtlety as to strike dumb all who saw the chamber for the first time.
It was a hundred spans wide and the domed, pale-obsidian ceiling above soared half again more than that. Sargatanas took each visiting demon dignitary around himself, pointing out details, like the carved smoked-crystal capitals atop each of the five hundred gold columns or a particularly eloquent vein in the polished bloodstone floor. While the palace's shell was built traditionally of bricks, there was not a soul-brick to be found in its core; all the materials used in the arcade, the Audience Chamber, and the dome had been painstakingly quarried from veins of native rock. That, alone, made the edifice unique. Sargatanas had had no desire to incorporate the suffering of souls into the heart of his great building-of-state. Some might have called it a monument to ego, but Eligor knew that it was a sincere attempt to keep the memory of the Above close at hand.
He, Valefar, and sometimes Valefar's lieutenant, the Demon Minor Zoray, were frequent guides to the sights of the palace. When the great Earl and Demon Major Bifrons arrived with his large entourage, his three eyes widened with the sheer size of the chamber. As befit Sargatanas' Prime Minister, Valefar took the lead, showing them the splendors of the new palace. Gasps came from the corpulent earl—gasps of admiration, Eligor was sure, and not due to the demon's bulk.
'My lord,' Eligor said, dropping back with Sargatanas, 'if Earl Bifrons, whom none could call abstemious, is impressed, everyone who enters here will be awed. You will be known across all of Hell for this marvel.'
Sargatanas stopped and cast his gaze up toward the distant oculus. Dark clouds slid above it. 'I am sure you are right, Eligor. But what he will not realize is that I built this place as a symbol for Them—so that They can see that some of us still have our ... dignity. Even now.'
Eligor was joined by Valefar, who had broken away from the visitors. He looked intent.
'It always seemed to me, my lord, that we were doing the best we could given our circumstances,' Valefar said. 'I never considered that They cared at all about us since the Fall.'
'They care, I am sure, enough to watch us, if for no other reason than to guard against our return. Which means that They are paying us some attention.' Sargatanas' face was shifting. Gaps were opening and closing; tiny eyes or teeth appeared and disappeared again. He looked at Valefar and shook his head. 'Look at us, Valefar; look at what we have become. Perhaps we deserve all of this,' he said, indicating his steaming form. 'Certainly most of us do. But I will not allow Hell to change me more than it must.'
'Lord, I agree,' said Valefar, 'but our stance will do little to endear us to the vast majority of demons. They, in their anger and bitterness, have happily made peace with their transformations. To them, it stands as a symbol, a badge of their hatred for the Above.'
'I know,' said Sargatanas. 'I have been to Beelzebub's court too many times, met with too many demons, not to have seen that. I do not care. This is my court and this is how I would have it.'
'Your court is unlike any other in all of Hell, Lord,' said Eligor. 'It attracts those who share your enlightened beliefs.' Suddenly a fork-shaped sigil appeared before him glowing insistently. 'See? Even as we speak,' he said, in-cheating the floating mark, 'yet another stranger begs an audience. This one, too, hails from the Wastes. The storms seem to be driving them all to our doorstep. Should I send him away as I have the others?'
