God's Demon

Faraii’s quarters, began to focus on the difficult conversation that undoubtedly lay ahead.

When he arrived outside Faraii’s chambers Eligor knocked upon the door, and when he heard no response he pressed his ear against its cold surface. He heard a faint rasping from within and, puzzled, pulled the knob-latch on the door. With some difficulty he pushed his way into the darkened room, smelling the tang of blood, stumbling over some unseen obstacles on the floor, and then, reflexively, invoking a glyph-of-illumination to better see his surroundings. The room and its objects were as he remembered them from his last visit, but only when he entered farther did he see the damage wrought. Every bit of furnishing, every square foot of floor and wall, was hacked and sliced as by a very sharp blade until the flesh of the bricks hung in long, bloody tatters, the floor was uneven, and the sparse furniture teetered on sword-chiseled, bony legs. And punctuating his examination was the ever-present rasping of what sounded like metal upon stone.

Eligor’s eyes narrowed as he put his hand upon his sword hilt and walked slowly in the direction of the continuous sound. There is madness here. But when he actually set eyes upon the Baron, seated upon an untouched chair, Eligor was no longer certain. Faraii appeared composed, even serene, and were it not for the conditions of the surroundings and the whetting of his black sword, performed with ominous deliberateness, Eligor would have thought nothing amiss.

“Faraii, are you…?”

“I am fine… Eligor.”

“These chambers are not fine.”

Faraii shrugged. “I was angry.”

Eligor’s hand stayed upon his sword hilt.

“And are you still?”

“Of course I am. I was sealed in my quarters for doing my job too efficiently. I think that would bother you as well.”

Eligor saw the other demon’s eyelid flutter.

“But,” continued Faraii, “does that mean that I am unable to perform my sworn duty to Sargatanas?” The words hung for a moment, accompanied by the measured sound of the sword.

“Will you stop that while we talk?”

The whetting stopped.

“I just received word of the coming war along with my orders,” the Baron said matter-of-factly. “My incarceration, it would seem, has ended as of your arrival. Imagine that, Eligor; my lord suddenly has need of my services and I am free.”

“He does. We all do.”

“So, am I to be released simply to fight? Only to be put back in my cage afterward?”

“No, Faraii, that is not Sargatanas’ intent. He is offering you a chance not only to regain your former status but also to win his trust back, a second chance,” Eligor said with an edge to his voice, “and I am reasonably certain there will not be a third.”

“There will not need to be.” The Baron stood suddenly, as if a string had pulled him up from his chair. He sheathed the sword with an abrupt and perfect flick of his hand. His eyes gleamed with fervor. “I will serve my lord, Eligor. I have truly grown, both wiser and stronger, as a result of my punishment.”

In the half-light of the glyph Eligor saw, again, the nervous eyelid-flutter.

“Of that I have no doubt, Faraii,” said Eligor, but his suspicions and doubts were many and strong. Something ineffable about the Waste-wanderer had clearly changed. But, Eligor could not help wondering, why has he changed? Why has he gone from that outsider I found so admirable, quiet and self-assured, to this blatantly arrogant, defiant demon? What is eating at him? Even though Eligor knew that Sargatanas needed his leadership in battle, he personally would keep a watchful eye on the demon. Faraii’s ferocity was not something he wanted turned toward Sargatanas.

“All this,” Eligor said, indicating the ravaged rooms as he walked to the door, “will have to be addressed. For the moment, I will keep it between us and have it taken care of.”

Faraii stood amidst the chaos, arms folded and looking at his feet, his only thanks a curt grunt.

* * * * *

Troubled, Eligor ascended into the skies above Adamantinarx. He peered down, taking in the absolute dark magnificence of it, its broad avenues and great domes, its thousands of fire-lit buildings teeming with demons and souls, its many-colored, blazing glyphs, its frozen army of monumental statues, and wondered how it would be changed by the events that were to unfold in a war with the greatest forces of Hell. And then his gaze fell upon the slow-flowing Acheron, the River of Tears, and the unwelcome thought entered his mind that it was perhaps, after all, an unfortunate landmark, an uncomfortable omen for a city whose future was now, at best, ill defined.

Chapter Twenty-One

ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON

HELL’S FIRSTBORN^{13}

It was a dream that had begun when he regained himself, a dream that echoed his life before Hell. He knew that he was dreaming, but it did not help; his legs and arms, so heavy bearing the light, squirming burden, moved as if they were made of bronze. But when he looked down into the infant’s eyes so bright, something he always did to find succor in the innocence he saw there, his heart raced and the hatred he felt swelled. Not for her. Never. But for him up there. And his gaze, as cold as the blue heavens themselves, reached skyward. How can I do this thing? It goes against everything: humanity, fatherhood… nature. They, the hated people of Roma, do not even do this. The privations those people had imposed on his city after the war, that was why he was here today. That and the merciless summer.

The acrid smell of smoke wafted into his nose, and hatred filled his mouth.

His daughter made that gurgling, cooing noise he loved so much, and he faltered and thought of breaking and running but could not. His feet kept moving and the rows of people on either side, somber and quiet, nodded as he passed them. As he drew near the smoldering Tophet, the warring emotions of hate and love, so powerful in their strength and opposition, twisted something primal deep inside him and he knew, someday, many would suffer because he did this on this day. Now, today, he, a noble Barca, would set the example and they, like the stupid, believing sheep that they were, would follow with their own firstborns.

The cooing had stopped, and after a brief silence it was replaced by her crying, softly at first and then louder.

Shreds of smoke stung his eyes, and the tears it created mingled with those that had formed as he walked. Around him the air began to waver with the intense heat. This is Hell.

He stepped to the edge of the burning pit, taking in the pointed pillars, the mounds of ash, the tiny charred and broken bones and heat-split urns, and the sudden din of drums and sistrums made him flinch imperceptibly. He had to forcibly will his arms to extend, the crying, flailing bundle now, oddly, unheard against the riot of sound. He was a powerful man and she was light and when, upon a signal from the priest, he threw her she went farther than he expected. And as he did, through his uncontrollable tears and the overwhelming hatred, he cursed the god who had given his people this ritual of death, who had convinced them that only the most precious of all gifts would expiate their sins. As the clammy fingers of the dream released him he was still cursing the hungry god named Moloch.

* * * * *

With half-closed, tingling eyes he smelled the salt of the Acheron caught on the wind, mixed with the brimstone-scent of the city’s far-off fires. Wrapped in an Abyssal-skin cloak, Hannibal, Soul-General of the Souls’ Army of Hell, lay alongside his new army and thought, not for the first time, of Imilce. It was the usual pattern—first the dream about their daughter and then Imilce. In his half-slumbering mind’s eye he saw her strong, beautiful face as it had looked perhaps thousands of years earlier, and he hoped that she was not somewhere in Hell. Not her, not in this place, he thought. But he could never be sure; she had been born of