Sargatanas began a long, slow descent and would have plunged into the smoke-filled darkness of the open floor below had Eligor not caught him.
As he dragged his lord away from the great hole, Eligor looked up and saw Semjaza, guided by the buzzing, moving purposefully toward the coalescing figure of the Fly. The Watcher said something in its own tongue, a language Eligor was unfamiliar with, and, opening its mouth, began to inhale deeply. The Fly tried to pull away, but it was in vain. An uncontrollable, continuous stream of blazing flies was pulled from the shifting form of the Prince and began to flow into the Watcher’s mouth, sucked into its glowing throat. The being that was Beelzebub began to waver and fade and Eligor heard a terrible scream emanate from the shredding cloud of flies. It lingered and echoed in his ears even after the Watcher had finished devouring the last of the Prince of Hell. And Eligor would never be sure, but it sounded to him as if that final, anguished cry was the name “Lilith.”
Seeing their master gone, the remainder of the Fly’s troops broke and ran, making their way as best they could over the shattered floor. Most met their destruction at the end of a lance.
Cradling his lord, Eligor landed with the help of Metaphrax, who, following the Guard Captain, had endeavored to save Sargatanas. The two Demons Minor laid him upon a broken plinth that rose from the rubble and the fallen skins and then turned as one when they heard the Watcher suddenly gather itself and shoot up toward the ceiling. Without losing a wing beat, Semjaza shattered the thick dome-tiles and, amidst a rain of debris, vanished with a final howl into the darkness of the Infernal night.
He did not care what the outcome of the duel between Beelzebub and Sargatanas was; either way, he knew his fate would, more than likely, be unpleasant, and so he backed away, followed and guarded by his Knights.
It had been easy, in the chaos of the Watcher’s arrival, to exit the Rotunda. Easier still, given the Knights’ prowess, to destroy the few demons who took notice and foolishly thought to pursue him.
Adramalik had been nothing if not prudent. Hell was a place of ceaseless change, but one thing had been constant; Beelzebub had been capricious in his madness and, because of that, Adramalik’s preparations had been especially thorough. Millennia past, he had prepared for a time when he might have reason to flee Dis, but he had never envisioned it as a result of a successful rebellion. In a city as timeworn and fearful as the First City had been there were tunnels beyond count that, like a worm-chewed hide, pierced the ground and led away from the great citadel. He had investigated them himself and had chosen an obscure one that led circuitously into the Deep Warrens. There, in some ancient and unnamed lava cavern, he had imagined his Order could wait out any pursuers indefinitely. Only when he was certain they had not been trailed would they emerge and hurry through the Wastes to the Margins. After they escaped Dis he could be more leisurely deciding their destination. Perhaps, now that Rofocale was no longer its governor, he would head for Pygon Az; its proximity to the Pit was unquestionably worrisome to him but also useful. No one ventured voluntarily into those frozen wards.
His Knights were silent as they made their way through the series of anterooms that led to the now- shattered Rotunda. All were empty, but because he had already decided that he would destroy whoever crossed his path as he escaped, he carried his Order dagger. As he swept through the last small chamber, he saw a hunched figure approaching through the shadows. It was Agares and he seemed completely oblivious to the oncoming Knights.
Whether it was out of some weary sense of nostalgia or the odd feeling that destroying the ex-Prime Minister was beneath him, Adramalik hesitated. He lowered his blade and shook his head, a signal to Salabrus and the trailing Knights, and then, as he passed, looked more carefully at the twisted figure. Agares rolled his eyes up in surprise as he regarded the hurrying scarlet-clad demons, a strange smile crossing his ruined face. He was carrying a short, ash-dusted battle-cleaver in one hand and caressing a round, flat object in the other. Adramalik’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the ornate disk of the Architect-General Mulciber.
Agares cackled as they passed; at this point Adramalik could not have cared less what happened to him. As far as Adramalik was concerned, Mulciber had been an intractable fool and received what he had deserved and, as for Agares, his tortured existence was punishment enough. For now, navigating the broken and burning Keep would more than occupy Adramalik’s and his Knights’ attention. Freedom would come eventually, he knew, but it would surely be only after much blood and ash had been spilled. That in itself was exciting, but the prospect of being away from Dis was even more exhilarating. Far from regarding this as a shameful retreat, Adramalik saw it as the new beginning he had hoped for so long.
The Keep heaved beneath his feet and he broke into a trot.
Lilith opened her eyes in Heaven.
The sky above danced with fiery colors, pure and beautiful, before her heavy-lidded, unfocused eyes just as she had always imagined it. Turning her head, she saw fabulously attired hosts of Seraphim standing under golden and crimson trees and peering from lofting bridges into the sparkling azure streams below. Many were staring at her.
She felt a coating fading away from her skin, a layer of small objects that pattered on the surface she was lying upon. Without moving, she looked for Sargatanas to ask him how he could have brought her with him, but her vision was too blurred to distinguish the features of the unmoving Seraphim.
She raised herself up on one elbow and felt light-headed, nauseated. Looking down slowly, she saw her skin mottled bluish-gray, its texture puckered and dry. She closed her eyes and tried to remember but was rewarded only with still air and silence.
She felt the smooth, hard stone beneath her and then something else. Her shaky hands met with hundreds of tiny, brittle objects that crushed easily beneath her fingertips. When she opened her eyes again she knew.
Lilith felt as if she could not breathe; her lungs seemed congested and heavy. She dropped one clawed foot to the cold floor, then the other, and stood for a moment in the hope that being upright would clear her head. More of the tiny objects cascaded to the floor.
She remembered and then stiffened suddenly, her nausea sharpened, and she heaved. A terrible stream of black, dead flies came up and corrupted the floor. She did not stop gagging for minutes; the thought of those unclean flies deep within her so repelled her that she welcomed the retching. When she was finally finished, the stained floor was like a sacrilege to her and she wiped her trembling mouth, feeling ashamed.
But who had brought her here? Who could have known about the Shrine? And she realized that of all the demons left in Adamantinarx only Andromalius knew of its existence. He had, undoubtedly, thought it to be the safest place in the city. It was a sad choice.
She turned and looked at the bier, covered in the small bodies of the flies that had nearly taken her life. She regarded them, studying their contorted, differing faces, a cold rage flaring to life deep within her. She reached out with clawed hands and scooped up two handfuls of the dead creatures, clenching them between her fingers until a dusting of their shells lay before her. From somewhere she heard herself screaming and saw herself grabbing handful after handful, crushing and pounding the brittle flies until not a single one was left intact. Those in her puddled vomit she flattened into black slime beneath her feet, sliding and slipping after each one, her screams of vengeance echoing throughout the Shrine.
When she had finally exhausted herself, panting and still trembling, she made her way from the center of the Shrine through its vestibule and out into the corridor beyond. Tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks, for she knew that, somehow, Sargatanas had prevailed and the Prince was no more.
It was a dying. Not the sudden, implosive destruction that was the all-too-common termination of life in Hell, but then again, Eligor thought, his had not been commonplace mortal wounds. Sargatanas was passing and there was nothing he or any demon could do to prevent it.
