Chapter Twenty-Seven

DIS

"I summoned you because something appears to be happening across Adamantinarx," the newly appointed Prime Minister heard Agaliarept hiss. Pointing abruptly and in a revelatory manner with five of his arms, the Conjuror General continued, "Pockets of weakness are opening. ... Look at these configurations. Here and here and ... there! See how they fade?"

Adramalik had to admit that the map of Adamantinarx that floated before them was, indeed, changing significantly. The intricate multilayered latticework of glyphs that represented individual buildings and streets and tunnels, even certain personages, seemed to blister and pop like the bubbles upon the surface of a shifting flow of magma. Some of Agaliarept's many mouths made sucking noises of pleasure, sounds that seemed appropriate for the bursting of the glyphs, as the carefully constructed defenses mutated, affording him perceived opportunities that had not been there before.

"We should inform the Prince if the palace itself begins to degrade," said Adramalik.

Most of the activity, for the moment, involved what appeared to be domiciles and storehouses. "I am now convinced she is somewhere within it and not being kept outside its walls as a foil. The Prince's Hand has searched the city ceaselessly and come away with nothing."

Agaliarept appeared not to be listening but, instead, to be in some kind of trance state, his finer manipulators dexterously separating and plucking away at the newly configured glyphs, his minds digging, prying, calculating. Adramalik stepped back as disinterested portions of the Conjuror began to peel away and fall off, chittering and fading away in the darkness of the chamber, setting about on other unknown tasks. Seeing them, he moved farther away and then left the Conjuring Chamber altogether, careful to observe whether the smaller parts of Agaliarept were on their own mission. He knew he must hurry.

A smirk twisted across his face; he would not wait to tell his Prince as he had advised Agaliarept. Beelzebub would be pleased with the news, and he very much wanted to be the bearer of it; he did not want to risk lessening his punishment by diluting the message.

Sargatanas' strategy should have been predictable, he thought reproachfully, that in his hour of need he would tap the only resource he had left to him—the souls—and that this would benefit the Prince. And, more important, himself.

ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON

When Eligor finally brought Hannibal out of his darkened chamber the soul found himself squinting at a very different Adamantinarx, a heavy blanket of dust hanging over the city, evidence of the ongoing demolition that was reshaping it. Supported by the Guard Captain, Hannibal walked weakly at first, trying to regain a sense of balance and poise that was hampered by his lingering pain and the loss of his arm. Mago was not far behind, and when Hannibal seemed comfortable enough to stand on his own, Eligor let go of the general and allowed his brother to offer his help. Looking at the soul's uncomplicated sigil, Eligor admitted to himself that it would take some getting used to.

He also had to acknowledge that Hannibal was more than deserving of the honor.

Like Sargatanas, Eligor had grown to admire the resourceful soul. Hannibal, Eligor had learned in speaking with Mago, was what souls regarded as a military man, born of what they thought of as nobility, and perhaps because of these factors he seemed unfazed by the company he now found himself in. Not the fact that he was among demons, not the reality that only a short time ago they had been his zealous wardens, not even the sheer comparative size of them—none of this seemed to impinge upon his ability to remain focused.

Eligor kept a concerned eye on Hannibal as the trio descended toward the waiting armies.

The Soul-General had elected to wear a heavy cloak that mostly concealed his asymmetrical shoulders and would probably continue to do so until his new arm was fully regrown. Despite his recent trials, he seemed strong and only stumbled once. He was silent as they traversed the Rule, taking in the changes that had been wrought in his absence. Groans and cries carried from distant quarters as structures came down, the sounds of Sargatanas' city in agony.

Nearly at the river's edge, Eligor saw that in contrast to the city-center, here virtually no buildings were left standing; only those essential to the waging of war had withstood the tide of destruction. Adamantinarx's demolition had progressed efficiently and, Eligor thought, somewhat ruthlessly. Walking through the palace had reminded him of its construction rather than any imminent razing, whereas the city's aspect was one of pending morbidity. His dismay was profound. More than most, he understood Sargatanas'

pressing need, but Eligor was saddened by the wanton destruction of what he knew would surely take centuries to rebuild. Where buildings had stood there remained little but geometric depressions upon the ground. Only the massive internal gate remained, a smaller cousin of the cyclopean checkpoint gates that still ringed the city, a stark sight still attached to the adjacent walls but standing free of its once-plentiful surrounding buildings.

The sound of trumpets and drums reached their ears as they crossed the Acheron's largest bridge, the Kufa-vors Eophan, and Eligor lengthened his stride. The encampments were far enough away from the river not to be influenced by its sorrowful effects, and once they arrived at the encampments' outskirts it took some time to negotiate the improvised streets that crisscrossed the military tent-city. The allied armies that had been promised by their lords and ambassadors had finally arrived, and the Guard Captain knew there was no reason to linger another day. The time for his or any other demons' doubts had vanished long ago, and now that the decision to attack Dis had been made by his lord, Eligor simply wanted to send his troops aloft.

A small army of demons numbering, Eligor guessed, in the few thousands knelt over their sheathed swords in close ranks before a newly erected rostrum. As he ascended the steps toward Sargatanas and his generals, Eligor saw that those waiting before the rostrum were an assembly of ad of the lesser-ranked field commanders—Demons Minor mostly—who would lead the immense host into battle. Each army in itself was so large that it required its own major general and his staff to coordinate movements.

Hannibal excused himself and moved to speak with Mago and the other gathered soul field marshals. He had much to work out with them, and once again Eligor admired Hannibal's calm under such pressure.

As Eligor approached, he saw the pale form of Sargatanas with Put Satanachia—a five-pointed starburst of flame above his head—standing just to one side. The two were so similar in their height and bearing, the stamp of their rank, Eligor knew, but Sargatanas'

intensity was nothing at all like Satanachia's more open nature, the latter's personality more closely resembling Valefar's. Certainly, Eligor realized with self-reproach, Sargatanas had changed within most recent memory, gone from being more composed to being more closed, a creature of deeper introspection. Such were the enormous pressures he had created for himself; such was the burden of the decision he had made. But even sympathetic to that, Eligor had to admit that he missed the Sargatanas of old, the attentive mentor of millennia past.

Eligor saw Satanachia's Glyph-caster, the flamboyant Demon Major Azazel, in deep conversation with the two principal demons. Like most Glyph-casters, he was an especially ornate demon, crested and frilled in thin spines and stretchy membranes and like Eligor hued a brilliant scarlet. Until Satanachia's arrival, Sargatanas had never used a Glyph-caster, choosing to issue orders himself upon the field, but given the vast size of this army he had bowed to his new ally when he had offered him the specialized and exalted talents of Azazel. Eligor, knowing the value of such a generous gift, was more than content to defer some of the responsibilities of messenger in favor of one so well equipped.

Satanachia acknowledged him with a lifted hand as he stepped closer. All three saluted in response and then turned to look out at the dark swath of sigil-crowned officer demons.

Upon a signal from Sargatanas, Azazel flared to life, covering his body in a hundred Demon Majors' sigils and raising his new lord's in a fiery vertical column high above him. The newly reinforced, newly dubbed Second Army of the Ascension, massed behind their commanders, rose thunderously as one and lit their countless unit-glyphs. Eligor's eyes widened at the sheer number of them, at the legions nearly beyond count that extended into the darkness of the night.

"Was there ever so magnificent a sight in Hell ... or the Above, for that matter?"

Satanachia remarked.

"It is impressive," agreed Sargatanas.

"Impressive? This," Satanachia said, waving his hand at the expanse of soldiers, "this is power beyond anyone's wildest imaginings. Only the Fly commands numbers like these. I envy you, Sargatanas, envy you because I did not think to do this myself millennia ago."

He paused, smiled to himself, and said, "You know, I actually think Lucifer would approve."

"Do you?" Sargatanas' voice lowered, but Eligor was close enough to hear him nonetheless. "The idea of going against his delegated proxy ... it felt as if I were going against him. I am still his loyal warrior no matter where he is."

"As am I, old friend," Satanachia said with conviction. "I would not have joined you in this if I had thought otherwise."

Sargatanas turned and took in what was left of his city. His eyes settled, Eligor saw, in the direction of the enormous fire-topped statue of himself. Now, with so many varied structures no longer standing, it, as well as all of the other giant statues that dotted Adamantinarx, stood out oddly, seeming somehow naked without their covering of buildings.

"Amazing how this all could have started because of the souls," he said almost to himself.

"The War in Heaven?"

"And the War in Hell."

"They are ceaselessly difficult." Satanachia stared at the fields where the souls waited. "I think they have much to answer for."

"Yes, and so do we regarding them," Sargatanas said. "When Lucifer rebelled I do not think there was one among the Seraphim who dreamt that we would find ourselves so enthusiastically meting out their punishment."

Sargatanas grew silent. Was he thinking of the past, of the life from which he was trying so hard to extricate himself, of his own treatment of the souls— of Lilith? Eligor could not guess.

Sargatanas turned abruptly and said to Azazel, "Your first order, Glyph-caster: we march at Algol's zenith."

Azazel bowed ceremoniously and immediately the sigils that hovered inches above his body began to transform, each quickly growing an attached order-glyph, which peeled away from him and sped into the night air.

"That is not too long from now," Satanachia said, looking at the angry star.

"My Conjuring of Concealment was successful. ... Eligor's Flying Guard, as well as your own, will not be visible to the Fly or his defensive glyphs. At least not for the initial assault over Dis."

Eligor's head turned at that and he caught Sargatanas' knowing grin. He had been foolish to think that he could eavesdrop if his lord had wanted it otherwise. And Eligor felt privileged to know that it did not trouble Sargatanas that he had heard.

"There is little for me to do now other than roam the empty halls of my palace,"

Sargatanas went on with a disingenuous sigh.

"Oh, the tragic demon!" said Satanachia gravely.

Sargatanas' grin broadened. It was, Eligor realized, an exchange such as his lord would have had with Valefar, and it gladdened him. It seemed that, now that the weighty decisions had been made and the day of departure was now upon them, Sargatanas had reverted to his former self. None but Satanachia— or Valefar himself—could have brought him back.

The demons turned as one as a low, incongruous peal of laughter came from the souls surrounding Hannibal, who clapped his only hand upon the back of one of his generals.

Hannibal looked past his staff and saw the demons' reaction and, as if to make amends, without hesitation knelt and withdrew his sword and saluted. The gesture was taken up by each of his generals. In answer, the demons spontaneously unsheathed their own weapons and saluted, eliciting a deafening roar of approval from the army at their feet. It was an unrehearsed moment, a moment of undeniable potency, precipitated by the Soul-General, and Eligor immediately recognized its value. It was the kind of moment every general dreamt of.

"Hannibal is an inspired general," Eligor heard Satanachia say as the din died down. He sheathed his sword. "You chose him well."

"I did not choose him; he chose me. With Lilith's help. And you are right. He leads the souls as if this were his own rebellion."

Satanachia looked again toward where the still-clamoring, sigil-less soul army stood.

"What will become of them?"

"Truly, Satanachia, I do not know. Their fate is no clearer than my own. And they know it."

"Given that, their bravery is commendable."

"Their bravery is a measure of their hope and desperation," Sargatanas said. "Again, not unlike my own."

"And what of Lilith's future?"

"Lilith is more than capable of deciding that for herself. It is what she wants more than anything."

"Not more than you."

Sargatanas took a deep breath and Eligor saw his head tilt skyward, his eyes reach into the clouds above.

* * * * *

Hannibal found it odd that he could feel so at peace with Hell that he could laugh and relax with his troops and even look forward to the battle ahead. It was almost as if the dark clouds had parted and the golden sun of his life was shining upon him, not the cold, dispassionate rays of Algol's bloodshot disk. Whatever had caused his shift in mood, it barely troubled him; he had come so far that even if he was destroyed attacking Dis, his would be a name demon and soul alike would remember. It was more than he could ever have hoped for and, in the end, all that he had truly received in his life.

Breaking away from his staff, he descended from the rostrum and walked alone amidst the quiet, orderly lines of soul infantry, watching as they touched weapons, passing simple spell-glyphs the demons had given them from one to another. Traced in every fiery hue imaginable, the glyphs would make their swords and pikes and axes only fractionally more powerful, but, he thought, what little advantage they could take from their former masters could make the difference. When they looked up at him passing, seeing his blue sigil for the first time, they bowed their heads in respectful, silent salute.

They were tarred with the brush of evil, many much worse than himself, but they would fight, whatever their reasons, for him and the mere chance of redemption, and that was enough for him.

Eventually growing tired, he returned to Mago and the other generals, all of whom were huddled and asleep, trying to get as much rest as possible before the long march. As Hannibal settled in and pulled his heavy cloak around him, he looked out toward Adamantinarx, the city he, like all of the other souls, had helped build, and saw a beauty there that he had never seen before. Ruddy from the light of the ascending star, its few remaining buildings, mostly huddled on the central mount, were, he realized, aesthetic wonders. Even though the streets were now devoid of the smaller dwellings and mostly barren of the larger edifices, he could see the city, in his mind's eye, for what it had been—a noble, and some might say naive, attempt by Sargatanas to bring something of Heaven to Hell. The dark grandeur of it had been unlike anything that had ever existed, and Hannibal was saddened by its precipitous razing. The great and gleaming domed palace, intact only from the outside, rose through the enveloping shroud of dust, the broken heart of a stricken city. And within it, somewhere well inside its hollowed interior, he knew Sargatanas and Lilith abided. For now.

Hannibal's lids grew heavy and he slipped into his Tophet dream again. Only now, as he descended deeper and deeper into the familiar smoke-filled world of his great guilt, it seemed, as he faded away, that he saw himself through new, more accepting eyes. Less pained eyes. And very dimly, though he could not question why, he felt grateful that, after so much time, he could be at peace with himself.