Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

As Hannibal resumed fighting he occasionally stole a glance toward Satanachia's position, and as time wore on he saw that the Demon Major's forces were suffering considerable losses. A large salient of Rofocale's troops was bulging deep within Satanachia's lines, and try as the Behemoths might to stop the enemy from pushing forward, they seemed too few against the seemingly limitless waves of steaming legionaries that issued from beneath the Keep. Time and again Hannibal saw their massive hammers come down amidst the carpet of enemy demons only to see the pulverized foe immediately replaced by clots of aggressive halberdiers climbing atop the rubble.

The ten nearest legions, arranged in close formation, entered the fray, packed tightly so that they seemed a solid wall. The rubble from the destroyed demons of both sides was so extensive that both armies found their legionaries climbing up steep, irregular inclines to engage each other. With the ceaseless, mounting destruction the footing was becoming extremely unstable, and he saw as much damage incurred because of masses of falling soldiers as there was from actual combat wounds.

Slowly, the Behemoths began to gain ground and what had been a standstill turned into a rout. The Summoning of legionaries from the Belt finally abated and Satanachia's legions fell upon the fleeing demons, leaving a field strewn with smoking rubble.

Briefly, Hannibal thought he saw Satanachia's sigil floating against the brightness of the Belt just where he would expect it—over the line's center. A swift flash of white might just have been his brilliant two-handed sword, but Hannibal could not be certain. A giant green glyph emerged unexpectedly from the summit of the Black Dome and with a terrible scream of energy the wall came alive. Enormous bolts sprang from it, each one targeting a different Behemoth and enveloping it in a fireball of destruction. In short, disastrous moments, only fiery pits remained where the Behemoths had stood and the crackling wall had resumed its shifting glow. And a new wave of demons seemed to be forming upon the Belt. The battle had turned for the worse, and Hannibal's spirits sank.

He looked again to the Demon Major for any commands or for Azazel. and as Hannibal picked the standard-bearer's gaudy form out of the milling legionaries a glyph rose into the sky from that embattled position and he knew without doubt that Satanachia was there. The fiery command streaked toward Hannibal, and when he had taken a moment to interpret its filigreed complexities the realization of what the Demon Major was asking of him nearly made him drop his sword.

* * * * *

Beelzebub was, Adramalik noted with some relief, in a state of rare and unexpected calm as he observed the progress of his legions. The Prime Minister, face burning from surveying the windswept battlements, stepped closer to the throne and saw something new in his Prince's hand. Stripped of its flesh undoubtedly by Husk Faraii, Lucifuge Rofocale's head had been ingeniously adapted by the Prince's own hand to serve as a lens to focus upon the events far below him on Dis' field of battle. Mounted on a short, gold staff, the once-defiant, proud head had been picked clean, broken apart, splayed out, and transformed into a dark contrivance, all inscribed bone with inlaid, functional gems and spinning glyphlets that covered its blackened length and breadth up to its gold-rimmed, circular eye sockets. Watching his Prince peering through Rofocale's empty eyes, Adramalik had to marvel at the things his master could do, things that he found at once revolting and, despite himself, inspiring.

A noise caught his attention from the throne's base. Adramalik noticed Agares for the first time, as the distorted demon tried in vain to suppress a bubbling cough. His appearance had so worsened that he seemed no longer a demon but now, wasted and raw, a detached part of the shadowed throne of flesh that he sat beneath.

"He is coming," the Prince buzzed.

"Sargatanas, my Prince?"

"The Heretic!"

"Where is he, my Prince?"

"I cannot tell," he said, never taking his many eyes from the skull. "He is clever, Adramalik. I only know that he is close."

Adramalik looked up, past the Prince atop his throne. The dangling skins were in a constant state of agitation, creating a palpable breeze within the Rotunda and stirring the rank smells of its contents. The battle in the city below must have been affecting them.

"All is in readiness for him. We have fielded every last legion, and the Keep Wall is fully alive."

"I think it will not be enough, Prime Minister. He is a determined heretic."

Adramalik said nothing; there was little more that could be said or done than what his master had already implemented.