Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

"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.