Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

"My lord," Eligor said, dropping back with Sargatanas, "if Earl Bifrons, whom none could call abstemious, is impressed, everyone who enters here will be awed. You will be known across all of Hell for this marvel."

Sargatanas stopped and cast his gaze up toward the distant oculus. Dark clouds slid above it. "I am sure you are right, Eligor. But what he will not realize is that I built this place as a symbol for Them—so that They can see that some of us still have our ... dignity. Even now."

Eligor was joined by Valefar, who had broken away from the visitors. He looked intent.

"It always seemed to me, my lord, that we were doing the best we could given our circumstances," Valefar said. "I never considered that They cared at all about us since the Fall."

"They care, I am sure, enough to watch us, if for no other reason than to guard against our return. Which means that They are paying us some attention." Sargatanas' face was shifting. Gaps were opening and closing; tiny eyes or teeth appeared and disappeared again. He looked at Valefar and shook his head. "Look at us, Valefar; look at what we have become. Perhaps we deserve all of this," he said, indicating his steaming form. "Certainly most of us do. But I will not allow Hell to change me more than it must."

"Lord, I agree," said Valefar, "but our stance will do little to endear us to the vast majority of demons. They, in their anger and bitterness, have happily made peace with their transformations. To them, it stands as a symbol, a badge of their hatred for the Above."

"I know," said Sargatanas. "I have been to Beelzebub's court too many times, met with too many demons, not to have seen that. I do not care. This is my court and this is how I would have it."

"Your court is unlike any other in all of Hell, Lord," said Eligor. "It attracts those who share your enlightened beliefs." Suddenly a fork-shaped sigil appeared before him glowing insistently. "See? Even as we speak," he said, in-cheating the floating mark, "yet another stranger begs an audience. This one, too, hails from the Wastes. The storms seem to be driving them all to our doorstep. Should I send him away as I have the others?"

"No. I have a palace to fill now, Eligor." Sargatanas looked at the sigil. "He is a high-ranking fellow and I will meet him. There," he said, nodding toward the immense pyramidal dais that rose from the center of the chamber. "Bifrons may stay, if he likes."

Valefar raised his hand and the stranger's sigil was augmented by two smaller glyphs, which whisked it away. He, Eligor, and Sargatanas made their way to the dais, crossing over Sargatanas' enormous circular sigil that was inlaid into the floor. It was complex and made of poured silver that gleamed against the polished stone.

Even as they began to ascend the stairs to the pyramid's flat top, they could see the stranger, having just reached the far columns, begin to cross the floor. A contingent of Eligor's Flying Guard, Sargatanas' personal bodyguard, was already landing atop the dais. As Sargatanas settled into his throne and his two aides took their positions on either side, the Guard moved in to flank them. The newcomer could be seen energetically striding toward them; he was quick and his movements were oddly clipped. Perhaps too quick, thought Eligor, too eager.

They waited as the newcomer began to climb the stairs. The many-layered garments of skin he was swathed in were covered in the convoluted patterns of tiny perpetually lit embers characteristic of a Waste dweller. Steam poured off him in thin clouds, billowing with his precise movements. When he reached them he respectfully knelt, undoing the muffler of skin that had covered his face.

He was bluish in hue, and what the trio of demons could see of his hard, chiseled face was outlined in a linear tracery of small glowing spots. Whether these were his own or acquired and applied from Abyssals they could not tell.

Sargatanas gestured for him to rise, and when he did, his mantle opened somewhat, revealing a strong body, carapaced in articulated bone strips and covered with many ossified scars. The Wastes had written their distinctive signature upon his body; the fierce conditions and denizens encountered far from the cities rarely destroyed demons, but one could always spot a Wanderer by their many scars. And he had another Waste-dweller trait that would mark him to a knowledgeable demon—he moved with an almost jerky deliberateness, which some of the Fallen found inelegant and distasteful.

"Tell us about yourself," said Sargatanas. "What is your name?"

"I am called Faraii, Lord. I fell far from here, well past the Flaming Cut, out beyond the Fifth Gate of Seven. I did not fall intact but spent much time searching for my burned-off arm. After I recovered it and had it set back upon me, I wandered the Wastes and many of the outlying frontier-encampments. I have lived alone, mostly, and with some of the Waste dwellers, occasionally."