was lying upon the warm flagstones, the six flying demons behind with their lances tipped toward him. Sargatanas was watching him carefully, as were the five attending demons.
“Your name was Hannibal, son of Hamilcar of the House of Barca. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Yes… everything.”
“You were, among your kind, quite remarkable; your hatred ran deeper than most,” the demon said.
“I had much to hate.”
Sargatanas appeared not to have heard him. “What is it that you bring to me?”
And in that moment, with the awareness of his past achieved, the plan that had begun with the small statue became something else.
“I know that a great war is imminent,” said, rubbing the puncture-wounds on his shoulders. The pain was still enormous. “I can give you an army. An army of souls.”
Valefar snorted and threw up his hands.
“Look around you,” Sargatanas said with a sweep of his hand. “Does it look to you as if I need another army?”
Hannibal knelt, head bowed. Just as he had feared, the Burden was approaching his head, sliding through him inexorably. Wincing from his wounds, and with some effort, he shook his head. “Your legions are beyond impressive, Lord. Their capability is so far beyond any army I ever led that I cannot imagine withstanding them.
“However, like pieces set upon a board, they are predictable once seen. The army I offer you can be that board, unseen until you need them, and therefore unpredictable. No one knows better than you, I am sure, the advantage gained by the careful manipulation of the battlefield, the very buildings and streets under your enemies’ feet. Of course you could do it on your own or delegate it to one of your generals, but even that would take your attention away from your pieces… your demon legions. Nor do I think you could find a demon happy with the task of leading… us.
“Given the… authority, I could lead them as I’ve led others… before.”
“What makes you so sure that they will follow you?”
Hannibal hesitated and then reached into the cavity in his side. His fingers closed upon the small statue, feeling its familiar, comforting shape. He pulled it out and held it up before the demon lord.
“She has led me this far. I must believe that she will help me lead my kind.”
Sargatanas’ eyes widened. To the amazement of Valefar and the other demons, he reached under his fleshy robe and brought forth a statue nearly identical to the one in the soul’s hand. Only Hannibal seemed unsurprised, having witnessed the moment of its discovery.
“I have seen her visions. They are glimpses of the Light… of Heaven regained.”
“Mine are visions of freedom,” Hannibal said. “If freedom begets redemption, then I can’t complain. If not, we’ll take it anyway. And stay right here.”
“You are quite the opportunist,” said Sargatanas. He regarded the statue in his bone-covered hand, weighing it. “I have been told that others like these are out there, but only you have understood its implications, have shown yourself able to do the exceptional by bringing it to me. Perhaps you can be exceptional, as well, upon my fields of battle and under my banners. I
“Thank you, my lord.” Hannibal bowed with some difficulty, top-heavy as he was with the weight of the Burden.
“You will truly thank me in a moment,” the Demon Major said, raising a hand. It glowed with a small but intricate glyph that shot out and touched Hannibal upon the Burden. For an instant, more pain seared through his already-weakened body, but it subsided quickly, replaced by a growing feeling of lightness, and when he looked down, shaking, he saw that his chest was covered with a thick, black liquid that flowed more profusely as the orb began to dissolve. Moments later a large deforming cavity was the only evidence of the cumbersome Burden he had carried. His collapsed head tilted unnaturally until the flesh and bone began to fill in, and when he was completely mended Hannibal, mouth agape, eyes round, knelt before the demon lord almost as one reborn. At Hannibal’s feet a large puddle of malignant blackness had pooled and begun to congeal.
Valefar stepped forward, turned to one of the attending winged demons, and indicated the pool that had once been Hani’s Burden. Light-headed, Hannibal heard him say, “Have that jarred and returned to the Wastes with the proper ceremony.”
Sargatanas lowered his hand and silently looked the trembling soul up and down. Satisfied, he turned quickly to resume his review, his burning robes trailing a thin, rising vortex of steam. A messenger approached him, and Hannibal could not help but hear their conversation.
“Lord,” the trooper said breathlessly, “I have just now come from the border. Lord Astaroth has launched a massive attack on our western margin.”
“Is there any evidence of support from the Prince?”
“No, Lord.”
“Our losses, so far?”
“Demolishers are eating away at the buildings on the edge of Zoray’s Thirty-fourth Ward. Lord Astaroth’s reconnaissance was good; with no true resistance there he has made substantial gains.”
DEMOLISHERS{10}Sargatanas waved the trooper away and then turned to the massed soldiers.
“Legions,” he shouted, his voice like a pure trumpet, “the first move in our campaign has been made for us! We are at war!”
And Hannibal heard a martial cheer spring from thousands of inhuman throats and rise to the heavens, a cheer as he had never heard before.
After conferring for a moment, Valefar turned away from his lord and looked back at the soul. The Prime Minister was shaking his head, an expression upon his bone-plated face that seemed amazed.
“The fruits of your boldness come sooner than you could have imagined, soul!” he shouted through the cheers. “Hannibal Barca, you are now a general in the active service of his lord Sargatanas, Brigadier-Major of the Armies of Hell, Lord of Adamantinarx!”
Chapter Fifteen
The flight to the border with Sargatanas, Faraii, and Valefar had been quick and easy. War had been imminent for some time, and Sargatanas had had his chosen troops in place long enough for their camp to be well dug in. Upon landing, Faraii headed off to join his Shock Troopers, while Sargatanas and Valefar joined the staff that had gathered beside a conjuring pit. Eligor, wings twitching in anticipation, volunteered to reconnoiter and chose six flyers from the Flying Corps. They took to the air and, after a few dozen wing beats, Eligor realized just how much he enjoyed being in his lord’s service at a time as important as this.
Looking down through a heavy mist upon the remnants of the border outpost, Eligor saw Astaroth’s Demolishers chewing their way through the remaining low buildings. Broad-backed and flattened, each slow-moving creature was, in reality, hundreds of souls compressed together to form nothing more than a giant mobile digestive tract. Myriad enlarged mouths bit off large sections of soul-brick wall and masticated them into pulp. Eligor saw the ruddy haze kicked up by the destruction and the long, straight reddish mounds that trailed behind them, the excreted remains of processed souls. The mounds extended for hundreds of spans, all the way back, he guessed, to the edge of the ward. The slickened ground they left behind was scoured and bloody, smooth and featureless.
The lower he and his half-dozen lightly armed scouts flew, the more distinctly he could see the buildings twisting upon their foundations in a futile effort to protect themselves and hear them crying out. When he had witnessed Demolishers in the past, Eligor had felt a sort of pity for those soul-bricks, mostly, he thought, based
