more potent than the one outside, that no matter what horrors he saw, it was her shining, trusting infant eyes that cut him to the marrow.
The child spoke his name and it felt like an arrow flying into his breast, but as it was repeated its sound changed, growing huskier and assuming a strange accent until, after a moment, he realized that she was not uttering it. As he awoke he recognized the voice to be that of Lilith, and when he opened his eyes he was looking up into her perfect oval face.
“Hannibal?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“How are you?”
“Mending, my lady. With thanks to you.”
“Are you feeling ‘mended’ enough for an answer to your questions about this?” another voice asked. Sargatanas appeared behind Lilith, the disk of Moloch held in his hand.
“My lord!” It had seemed so long since he had seen Sargatanas.
“He seems strong enough, my lord,” Lilith said, smiling.
“He will have to be,” Sargatanas said. “I need him at the head of his legions.”
Sargatanas turned the ugly disk in his hand. Its edges were sharp and jagged, and Hannibal heard them scrape on the demon’s hard palm as he regarded it. He seemed apprehensive about the object, almost cautious in the way he handled it.
“Hannibal, there are many things that I can do in this world, but giving you your arm back… to undo the dismemberment… is not among them. There are ways, though, that you can, once again, have a living limb, but to do this I would need, simply put, a catalyst… an object of power that would add the necessary new elements to my abilities. This,” he said, holding the Moloch disk up between his thumb and forefinger, “is one such object.
“And how would that be done?”
“I would have to place this inside your shoulder.”
A ripple of fear spread through Hannibal as he unconsciously reached for his shoulder. To enfold the ex-god within himself was a detestable idea, an act that would embrace the very entity that had caused him so much grief. He shook his head.
“You can, of course, elect to not use the disk. It will be otherwise useless to you… a simple trophy, well won, to put upon a shelf,” Lilith said. “There is no shame in choosing that alternative, Hannibal.”
“I have no other such items at hand,” Sargatanas said. “I am sure one will turn up eventually, but not in time for the upcoming battle.”
Hannibal looked down, considering the possibilities.
“This is
“We can give you a short time to decide,” Lilith said, “but the allies’ armies are arriving and very soon Sargatanas will be departing.” She looked toward the demon and Hannibal saw the concern flash across her features. “You will have to decide before then.”
Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment and saw the fleeting image of his daughter’s face, still fresh from his dream. It would feel like another betrayal of her to accept the Moloch disk. But would it really be one? What would Imilce say? He did not relish the idea of fighting with only one arm, nor could he be the kind of general who stayed behind the front ranks, ordering others to fight. He was in Hell, and to survive he needed every advantage.
“There is no need to wait, my lord and lady. I will accept this.” The ashen taste of fear, an unfamiliar taste, tightened his throat.
Lilith put a hand on his shoulder.
“You need not worry, Hannibal. Sargatanas has no doubts regarding the outcome of this invocation.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
Sargatanas set himself, took a deep breath, and began to intone four phrases four times in a voice comprised of four harmonics:
Four large glyphs, simple in form but different in color, appeared and began to circle the Demon Major’s head and by the fourth revolution they spread out, two on either side.
Lilith squeezed Hannibal’s hand as Sargatanas used the disk’s sharp edge to slice open her careful stitches. With a powerful thrust he pushed it deep within the shoulder until it was lodged beneath the soul’s collarbone. Immediately the demon spoke one of the four paired words and the corresponding glyph dropped down into Hannibal’s open wound, causing a terrible burning that spread throughout his body. The next glyphs brought, in rapid succession, the sensations of drowning in some engulfing, cloying liquid followed by a sudden cracking coldness and finally parching dryness. He saw Sargatanas’ lips moving but could hear nothing. Shocked and nauseated, Hannibal retched until his stomach ached. When he was finished he looked weakly at his wound and was dimly amazed that, without stitches, it had sealed itself.
“I chose you well, Hannibal Barca,” Lilith said softly. “Your strength is matched only by your courage. Rest now and we will send Mago in to be with you.”
She turned to leave, but Sargatanas lingered.
“There is one small thing more.” He extended his hand and with his index finger described a flowing pattern in the air above the soul’s shoulder, an arcing, actinic line of blue flame that looked, to Hannibal, like a charging animal. The glyph did not fade, and with every slight movement the soul made it moved with him.
“You are the first soul in Hell’s long, dark history to have earned his own sigil. It will be a mark of distinction… of power and protection… upon the battlefield,” the demon said with a touch of pride. And then, as he stood, he added, “You
Exhausted as he was, Hannibal managed a faint grin.
Lilith glanced at Sargatanas and thought he had never seemed more preoccupied. He was at once attentive and loving but consumed, as well, with the minutiae of state. He had an army to create—even greater than before —and time was running short. Accompanied by Zoray and a cohort of his Foot Guard, he and Lilith, after reviewing the remaining legions just outside the gates, ascended along the Rule from the tangle of the Acheron’s bank-side streets up toward the distant palace. On either side of the avenue, souls and demons alike knelt silently, staring at the two white figures in wonderment.
These were the days that she would long for, Lilith knew, even as, like jewels falling one by one from a broken necklace, they fell away. Though Adamantinarx was in a bustling state of mobilization, she and Sargatanas managed to keep constant company, to go from site to site and watch the mustering city at its finest. Part of her sensed that he was bringing her along not only out of love but also to familiarize her with the workings of the great city. In some place in her mind she wondered if he was grooming her for some role in the city.
Walking next to the demon lord, Lilith found it difficult not to descend into melancholia; the thought of his possible impending loss—through either the attainment of his goal or his destruction on the battlefield—was so daunting. And the third alternative—a hollow victory wherein he simply returned to his city, unfulfilled—worried her nearly as much. She did not want to feel dependent upon him, but that possibility was becoming truth. The pushing and pulling of her conflicting desires—her own admittedly selfish hunger for him against her urge to help him attain his goal—confused her. Perhaps it was just the vapors blowing off the Acheron that had made her so low spirited.
As they entered the palace precincts, a messenger approached Zoray, saluted, and spoke briefly as they walked. When he departed, the Demon Minor turned to Sargatanas.
“My lord, we are still coming up short on the numbers of souls. Mago and his commanders have informed me that they are able to field only nineteen full legions… not even close to what you had hoped for.”
Sargatanas looked up at the sky and sighed. “We need to be ready to march the moment our allies’ armies
