stopped there was that Satan had run out of energy. While his magic built up again, he contented himself with screaming abuse at the gathered nobles. Eventually even that led to an exhausted silence. He looked around at the stunned nobility, his eyes flickering from one to the next, trying to catch even the slightest whiff of treason.
“How many members of my guard were killed?”
“Nine, Sire.”
“And you claim that humans did this.” There was a sly inflexion on the ‘you claim’.
“They did Sire, they were seen by a Greater Herald that flew not far away. He saw the Iron Chariots killing them.” That was a trump call, Satan wouldn’t argue with testimony from one of his own Greater Heralds.
“And after the battle they crossed over the bridge and destroyed the camp the other side of the Phlegethon. Then they retreated back to their side of the river where a Flying Chariot joined them.”
Satan screamed again, and a lightning bolt struck down the speaker where he stood. “Their side of the river? Who else thinks such treason?” His eyes ran around the room, seeking for treason again, or an excuse to kill, there wasn’t much difference really. “The humans are still at the Dysprosium Bridge.”
“They are.” Beelzebub spoke carefully. “But they destroyed it. The Phlegethon is unbridged there now.”
“Then destroy them. Take your legions, all of them, and destroy them. Belial, is your plan ready to carry out? Or will you be seeing your furnaces from the inside?”
“We are ready Your Majesty. We have the information we need and the chorus is set up.” And I can only hope that’s true Belial thought. It wasn’t when I left two days ago, and when I get back, I’ll have little time left.
“Then you will time your attack to match Beelzebub’s assault on the Human Army. How soon can you move your army.”
Beelzebub cast an eye at Belial and thought carefully. “Four days Your Majesty.”
“Then that gives you two more days than I promised Belial. Use them well.”
Behind the scene, Deumos watched carefully, absorbing every nuance, every undercurrent in the great room. And through her mind kept running the phrase “the humans cannot lose.”
Then, the audience was disturbed by a Greater Herald who stumbled in, exhausted from a too-rapid flight. “Your Majesty, terrible news. Asmodeus is dead.”
Chapter Forty Two
Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim was concerned. This was by far the most ambitious scheme she and the Special Forces H Team assigned to her had attempted. It was taking up a frightening amount of resources, all their Semtex, their claymores and their concentrated strength. More than twenty humans, six deceased, fourteen living, and a small group of deceased spectators. Hell was going to hell Kim thought, they’d be having embedded reporters here next.
Beside her, Lieutenant Rollings watched the bottleneck in the road below. The ambush had been very carefully set up and additional troops brought in to bring it off. The problem was, the plan depended upon the baldricks keeping to their usual, predictable, selves. Faced with a problem, they invariably responded the same way, presumably the one that had been tested and proved successful over more years than humans could comfortably contemplate. If they continued to work that way, then this ambush would also work. If they didn’t, then the team here would be seriously weakened. There was a back-up plan for that, if necessary, the whole group would bail out through a portal, the living humans would stay back on Earth while the deceased would quickly re-insert into another region of Hell to join one of the new groups that had started up.
The strategy had been in operation ever since the baldrick forces had started their campaign to suppress the PFLH. They’d begun their encampments around a massive fortification near the now-severed bridge over the Styx. They’d started building them in a checkerboard fashion, each one within sight of the next, moving slowly forward as the lines of outposts were complete. The baldrick commander didn’t seem to be short of troops, that was for certain, and his strategy was quite obvious. To slowly shrink the ground the PFLH had to maneuver in until they were forced to fight in a static battle against overwhelming odds. It was a familiar strategy, one that had been used against guerilla forces since the days of Caesar’s battles in Gaul and probably for a long time before that. Still, Rollings had been taught his trade well and knew how to handle this particular problem. After all, the U.S. Army had been taught that particular lesson in the jungles of Vietnam by some real experts in guerilla warfare. Idly, he wondered just where the dead Vietcong were, they’d make excellent recruits for this particular war.
The dance had started with attacks on the leading edge of the outpost line. When one row was completed, somewhere the next row had to start with a unit being pushed forward. That unit, nine baldricks strong had been ambushed and wiped out. There was no doubt about it, the M-107 rifles were a murderously effective tool when used right and they could cut down the baldricks from ranges that the demons couldn’t easily grasp. After losing the first couple of advance units, they’d tried pushing several forward at once. A rapid-fire series of assaults had done for them as well. As the baldrick casualties had mounted, fighting an enemy they couldn’t see or touch, their morale must have started to plummet because they were showing less and less desire to be moving forward.
Well, that had led to the next stage, the baldrick commander had started to push bigger units forward, a full 81-baldrick company rather than the nine-baldrick squad. Interesting that, Rollings thought, they’d jumped the 27- baldrick platoon completely. That might be a measure of the morale problem down there or perhaps a shortage of junior leaders. Armies that had problems with their NCO numbers frequently dropped the platoon as an effective combat element and treated it as a training ground for company-level NCOs. Whatever. The baldricks had pushed a full company out to secure the basis for their next row of outposts. They’d expected that unit to be attacked and the PFLH had obliged them. They’d taken out the two outposts behind it, isolating it from aid and then laid siege. Of course, the baldricks had done what every army did in such circumstances and sent in a relief force, in this case, two more full companies.
They’d learned the lesson the U.S. Army had learned about that very quickly. The relief force had itself been ambushed, it had been swamped by a hail of rifle and rocket fire that had driven it back in disarray. That battle had cost the Special Forces the life of one of its troopers, fried by a lightning bolt. He’d been too keen, he’d kept firing from the same position rather than changing after every shot. He was doubtless somewhere out here, trying to escape and rejoin the fight as a trooper (deceased). If he could be located, they’d rescue him, DIMO(N) were working on that. By the time the battle was over a couple more of the Special Forces people had been wounded and the team had to be replaced, that was where Rollings and his group had come in.
With their first rescue column mauled and repulsed, the baldricks had thrown in a bigger one, probably the rest of the battalion, almost 500 strong. It had been lead by a major demon, a huge creature who had been carefully photographed and the images sent back to DIMO(N). They’d identified him as Asmodeus, one of the Great Dukes down here. They’d added that it was the custom for senior leaders to lead in person at a critical point in a battle and that had been interesting from several points of view. Not least of which was the fact that the baldricks obviously considered this engagement a critical one. He’d lead the relief force, the PFLH had refrained from engaging it and the outpost garrison had then been relieved.
That had set the style for the next period of fighting. The PFLH would besiege an outpost, inflicting casualties on it but not taking it. If a smaller relief column set out, it would be ambushed and its mauled remains sent scurrying back with its tail between its legs. But if Asmodeus himself led the force, it would be left unattacked. For the last couple of sieges, the baldrick commander had dispensed with the small relief column and led a full battalion himself, obviously convinced that his presence deterred any further attack.
So, the battlefield had been shaped and the blow set up. The baldricks were indeed predictable, it was easy to determine where their future outposts would, if they had such things as checklists, Rollings could have written one for them and they wouldn’t have known the difference between his and their own. He’d been able to choose his ground carefully, the place where he would attack his outpost and the place where he would ambush the relief column. This time, the presence of Asmodeus would be the reason for the attack, not one to pull back.
“There they are Broomstick.” The column was approaching, a way off yet, but still visible, a shining black mass against the gray-green slime of the Fifth Circle. “And the Tall Fellow is leading them again.”
“What’s that above them.” Kim spoke urgently, her binoculars traversing the scene.
“Damn. Harpies. That’s a new wrinkle. They smarten up faster than we thought. They’re staying close in
