Agares’ hand balled into a fist even as he swallowed hard. Focusing on neither of them, he turned brusquely and, without another word, strode stiffly from the room, followed by his unwelcome escort.
“What do you suppose he will do?” muttered Adramalik, looking at the Prime Minister’s retreating form.
“What any demon would in his circumstances. Attempt to destroy himself.” Nergar looked pleased at the prospect.
“Better Abaddon’s Pit than Beelzebub’s wrath, eh?”
Nergar nodded as he rose. “Well, yes, actually.”
Adramalik steadied himself as another clawing wave of agony shot through his body. As he passed through the threshold on his way to his chambers, he caught sight of Nergar smirking at his obvious discomfort from the corner, but the pain was so intense he ignored him. As Adramalik lurched into the corridor, he promised himself he would not forget Nergar when the time was right.
As soon as what was left of the victorious Great Army of the Ascension had returned, Lilith excitedly left her chambers to seek out Sargatanas. Apart from the lines of returning soldiers, the streets as well as the landings leading up to the palace steps were relatively open. Once before the huge doorway she saw that her progress was not going to be so easy; small groups of demons gathering down on the plaza below had formed into larger crowds and were waiting to enter. Once inside, she found traversing the palace corridors difficult; the milling about of demon clerks eager to hear of the battle slowed her progress to a crawl but also allowed her to hear snippets of battlefield news. Sargatanas had, she gathered, been brilliant against the worst Dis could marshal. He had been wounded. And some of his generals, along with their armies, had been destroyed.
Lilith made her way toward the Audience Chamber, but she soon found that she was far from alone in that goal. When she arrived at the outlying arcades she could see that a huge crowd had gathered around the base of the dais; it seemed as if Adamantinarx had emptied its streets and avenues into the great circular chamber.
Tales of the passing of Valefar found their way to Lilith in incomplete fragments, shreds of conversation caught as sad whispers in halting Angelic from the murmuring crowd. She had taught herself the language from books but never heard it spoken and wondered why now it was; when she had pieced the words together she had to stop and, supporting herself by a column, catch her breath. It had been hard not to let slip anything about their shared past in Dis; it would be harder still not to let her grief show. He had been an extraordinary demon, she thought, wise and undeniably noble. And now he was gone, leaving that other noble demon Sargatanas to fight his noble war without him.
As she moved toward the foot of the dais the crowd parted for her, but-still, she heard quite a bit. The battle had been won, but by all accounts the price had been heavy. The complete destruction of Adamantinarx’s military backbone—the phalangites—the end of Earl Bifrons, and the resultant chaos within his legions that had led to their massive casualties all had left the city weakened.
Lilith climbed the steps noting that more demons were coming down than going up. All who passed her saluted in some manner or another, each according her the honor as was their custom in their own wards. She spotted Zoray, deep in conversation with three other officials, and went to him. He disengaged from the demons and greeted her warmly as she gained the top of the dais, but she could sense immediately that something was wrong. Clusters of conversing demons obscured her view of Sargatanas, but Zoray navigated through them until both he and Lilith stood before the throne.
Bathed in the red light of the oculus, it stood empty, flanked dutifully by Eligor’s Guard.
“I thought you should see for yourself, my lady,” Zoray said softly. “He has not been seen since the first day of his arrival in Adamantinarx. He ordered that the court language be changed to Angelic in Valefar’s honor and then he was gone.”
“Is he injured?”
“Yes, but it did not seem to cause him too great discomfort. It was but a flesh-wound, deep but not debilitating. He would not let anyone minister to it, though. And there is something else.”
“Yes?”
“I saw him the day he returned. His appearance was shifting so rapidly, so awfully, that were it not for his sigil I would have scarcely recognized him. The seraph has never been further from him.”
Lilith looked at the throne and shook her head slightly. His misery at Valefar’s loss must have been consuming him.
“Is he in his chambers?”
“We think so, but there is no way to be sure. Perhaps you…”
“If he wishes to be alone then it would not be my place to intrude,” she heard herself say with apparent conviction. But Lilith knew what she would do. And she knew where she would look first.
“Tell me of the Soul-General, Zoray.”
“He is terribly wounded; Moloch’s Hooks dug too deep; he cannot possibly heal himself. On the battlefield he was patched up, but we have not been able to do much more. We have purged and safeguarded the traitorous Baron’s quarters and Hannibal now lies within. But he is not well. My lady,” Zoray said gravely, “we are not accustomed to
“Then I must go and see what I can do; I have some knowledge of them and may be able to help him.” She pressed Zoray’s arm and turned away. And then, so as not to arouse any undue suspicion, she said over her shoulder, “Zoray, if he
“If he should venture out, my lady, you will be among the first to know.”
“Thank you, Zoray.”
Zoray bowed and she continued down the steps, her bird-feet clicking lightly against the stone.
Lilith was relieved and pleased to see Captain Eligor outside Hannibal’s chambers. Eligor was a levelheaded demon and someone whom she trusted. And better than that, he was a relative expert in the ways of souls. She knew quite a bit about them herself but welcomed his bolstering presence as she entered the chambers.
The room that Hannibal occupied was dark and warm, and as she approached she saw that he lay upon a soft pallet, unconscious and still. Even though Faraii’s chambers had been purged and the walls sealed, complex glyphs-of-protection circled at ceiling height, designed to raise an alarm if the Fly in any way attempted to reenter this particular chamber. Lilith passed a solemn Mago on her way to his brother’s side. Leaning over the Soul- General, he examined the wound that had him so close to destruction. His entire shoulder and arm, attached to his torso only by the crude field-glyphs, had been peeled down in thick strips, the result of the multiple prongs of the Hook, which lay by his side. It was huge and she picked it up by its thick handle with difficulty, turning it in both hands and noting how the moving light of the glyphs overhead played upon its diamond recurved prongs. As she placed it back upon the table with a loud scrape she noticed, lying in shadow, the large, round disk that had been Moloch. She ran a finger over its blotchy surface and withdrew it quickly. She knew that it was inanimate but somehow, whether real or imagined, she felt a malevolent energy emanating from within. She hastily turned to Hannibal. The soul’s torso was open and she could easily see the very large black scab that ran from his neck to his hip. That was good, she thought. It had probably been the only thing that had kept his fluids within him. She would have to remove that and clean the wound beneath, but she knew that whatever she did, he would lose his arm completely; the glyphs apparently healed demons but were not effective on souls. The Arts Curative were not very highly developed among demons, but as she was careful to distinguish, she was no ordinary demon. She had known human beings from their own beginnings.
The arm was already shriveled and useless, the black, slow-moving blood having entirely drained away. She imagined that the organs within his chest must still be vital enough for him not to have been destroyed on the spot. The viscous blood in souls she knew was present only to keep the body flexible; it had no other properties that any demon had ever been able to discern.
“Mago,” she said haltingly, “he will lose his arm and a part of his shoulder as well.” She did not easily speak the common language of the souls, and it always sounded harsh and percussive to her ears.
Mago rose and stood by her, watching her pulling gently on Hannibal’s skin, gauging just how she would stitch him up. She unrolled her little kit of tools and selected a sharp little knife—her favorite carver. With this she
