Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

As the dome drew nearer, Eligor saw nothing to indicate that any of the Fly's troops were positioned to defend the regent's palace. The great structure and its countless adjacent minarets were empty, and only a strong, buffeting wind seemed in place to defend the gigantic building.

Eligor's hooks found the spaces between the yielding flesh-tiles and bit deeply in. Feet firmly planted on the dome's hot surface, he folded his trembling, weary wings and turned to watch the dark clouds of his descending troops as a thousand hooks reached out and they landed without mishap. A vertical wind like a hot vortex was rising from around the Keep, and Eligor and the myriad other demons' garments flapped violently, but the hooks remained in place and soon the heavy siege hammers and prying claws were brought to bear. Their sound deadened by the wind and the softer flesh-tiles, the demons' tools worked at the dark swell of the dome for what seemed like an eternity to Eligor. Hammers rose and fell in a fury of activity—activity that he knew was echoed around the dome by Barbatos' demons—but even after many minutes there seemed to be hardly any damage done. There was little Eligor could do but watch and wait for the thick vault to be breached.

* * * * *

Through the billowing ash of battle, Mago, who never strayed too far from Hannibal, saw the dark expression fall upon his face and did his best to fight his way on foot to his brother's side. Mago was a deft swordsman and in short time he had cut a path to the center of the line. The souls' losses were heavy, or perhaps it seemed that way to Mago—the demons left no bodies and he saw only the hacked and broken forms of Hannibal's soldiers lying in deep ash and rubble. They were many.

Hannibal saw Mago approaching but, at first, did not recognize him. Caked in sweat and ash and the black blood of his fallen comrades, he looked like all the other souls save for his distinctive weapon and demon-forged armor. To Hannibal's eyes Mago looked tired, but his spirits seemed high. His sword was welcome; a bristling wall of Rofocale's legionaries faced them and Hannibal had no time for greetings.

Gaha was down on all fours, swiping with its huge front feet and swinging its heavy head to part the solid line of infantry just ahead. Hannibal parried a jabbing halberd and split its owner's head from crown to chin, and even before his blade was withdrawn the demon was crumbling into lifeless rubble. Another halberd immediately took its place, and another, and the two brothers silently chopped at the enemy demons, leading their troops as they had done so long ago, until the line finally buckled and the enemy fell back.

Breathing heavily, Mago said, 'Brother, what is it?'

'My last order from Satanachia,' he said, leaning from the saddle and wiping his face. 'It weighs heavily upon me.'

Mago pointed with his sword to another wave of gathering demons and Hannibal nodded.

'No one considered that the Fly would destroy his own city and the ancient bridge to the Keep. Foolish ... it is what I would have done! Satanachia has asked me ... not ordered, Mago, asked ... to bridge the Belt with a ramp.'

'But what are we to use for this undertaking? We have brought no native stone to even attempt to ford the Belt!'

'Think about it, Mago. What have we got in abundance?' Hannibal paused. The word was not going to come easily. 'Souls,' he said hoarsely.

Had this been part of Sargatanas' plan all along—to take advantage of the souls' presence, once again, as walking resources? To use him? Or, because the ground battle was always considered a diversion, did Sargatanas not care about its outcome? Hannibal would never know if the battle ended as his lord hoped.

'No.' Mago's drawn face was now a reflection, Hannibal imagined, of his own. 'A promise was made.'

'It is the only way ... the old way.'

'You cannot give that order, Brother,' Mago said flatly.

'But I must. There is no other choice for me.' Hannibal's gut twisted. For a moment, he remembered a fearful day long ago on the work-gang, a day when he had come altogether too close, himself, to becoming part of a ramp not unlike this one. Could he really order others to voluntarily do what he had been so afraid to do?

'Hannibal, after the Flaming Cut you promised us that you would not let them use us in this manner again, that we would fight as souls and not be sacrificed as bricks. This battle hinges upon Sargatanas, not us. You've said it yourself ... we will probably never see Heaven. It is his rebellion; let him make the sacrifices.'

'If I—we want a voice here in Hell we have to earn it, Mago.'

'When we are done with this, who will be left to speak with this voice, Hannibal?' Mago said accusingly.

Hannibal turned to his first standard-bearer to issue the order and hesitated. How could he possibly explain how he was changing, what he was feeling, that sense that the mantle of destiny was his to don? But how could he betray their trust in him? Was he being selfish or realistic? And he suddenly realized that he did not care what happened to his souls so long as he was fulfilled, an emotion that had never been present in all his years as a commander in his Life.

He stared at the oncoming line of enemy demons, and as he watched, he saw Satanachia's right wing of legionaries shift position preparing to fill the gap that his souls would leave on the field after he issued his order. Satanachia knows me better than I know myself. He knows I will do it. He knows ambition.

Hannibal looked back into his brother's eyes and saw only the past—the past of his ancient human failures, the past of the Tophet fires and his eternal remorse. Mago, the brother who now served as a constant reminder of age-old pain, seemed to be pleading, hoping that Hannibal would do the human thing. Hoping he would cling to that despicable creature of the past.

He motioned to his first standard-bearer and crisply barked the order for his army to disengage and make their way to the Belt's edge, to the bank where the soul-ramp's construction would begin. He would not look back again at the life that once belonged to Hannibal Barca.

Chapter Thirty-Two