Barlowe, Wayne - God's Demon

"Think about it, Mago. What have we got in abundance?" Hannibal paused. The word was not going to come easily. "Souls," he said hoarsely.

Had this been part of Sargatanas' plan all along—to take advantage of the souls' presence, once again, as walking resources? To use him? Or, because the ground battle was always considered a diversion, did Sargatanas not care about its outcome? Hannibal would never know if the battle ended as his lord hoped.

"No." Mago's drawn face was now a reflection, Hannibal imagined, of his own. "A promise was made."

"It is the only way ... the old way."

"You cannot give that order, Brother," Mago said flatly.

"But I must. There is no other choice for me." Hannibal's gut twisted. For a moment, he remembered a fearful day long ago on the work-gang, a day when he had come altogether too close, himself, to becoming part of a ramp not unlike this one. Could he really order others to voluntarily do what he had been so afraid to do?

"Hannibal, after the Flaming Cut you promised us that you would not let them use us in this manner again, that we would fight as souls and not be sacrificed as bricks. This battle hinges upon Sargatanas, not us. You've said it yourself ... we will probably never see Heaven. It is his rebellion; let him make the sacrifices."

"If I—we want a voice here in Hell we have to earn it, Mago."

"When we are done with this, who will be left to speak with this voice, Hannibal?" Mago said accusingly.

Hannibal turned to his first standard-bearer to issue the order and hesitated. How could he possibly explain how he was changing, what he was feeling, that sense that the mantle of destiny was his to don? But how could he betray their trust in him? Was he being selfish or realistic? And he suddenly realized that he did not care what happened to his souls so long as he was fulfilled, an emotion that had never been present in all his years as a commander in his Life.

He stared at the oncoming line of enemy demons, and as he watched, he saw Satanachia's right wing of legionaries shift position preparing to fill the gap that his souls would leave on the field after he issued his order. Satanachia knows me better than I know myself. He knows I will do it. He knows ambition.

Hannibal looked back into his brother's eyes and saw only the past—the past of his ancient human failures, the past of the Tophet fires and his eternal remorse. Mago, the brother who now served as a constant reminder of age-old pain, seemed to be pleading, hoping that Hannibal would do the human thing. Hoping he would cling to that despicable creature of the past.

He motioned to his first standard-bearer and crisply barked the order for his army to disengage and make their way to the Belt's edge, to the bank where the soul-ramp's construction would begin. He would not look back again at the life that once belonged to Hannibal Barca.

Chapter Thirty-Two

DIS

Two of Satanachia's battlefield Conjurors were waiting at the Belt's edge when Hannibal and Mago arrived at the head of their army. Without ceremony they created their glyphs-of-conversion and proceeded to transform the front ranks of souls and almost instantly a cry went up from the surrounding multitude that was near. The demon legionaries on either side of the ramp's foot had been given orders to act as both a screen and a funnel, keeping the vast majority of the soul army oblivious to the construction that was under way. When suspicions grew, Hannibal reassured his officers that the souls being used would be converted back at the end of the battle. But he knew that it was a hollow promise; much depended upon who would be victorious, and the souls that were converted were losing any chance they might have had to flee if the battle went to the army of Dis. Shouts of anger filled his ears.

Forced at spear point, the souls that had been impressed dropped their weapons in a long running pile that followed the construction. The relationship between souls and demons had changed in mere moments; allies in battle had reverted to oppressors and victims.

Mago's expression was disbelieving, sour. Clearly, Hannibal saw, his brother disapproved of the treatment of the souls, of the reversion to their Infernal use, of his promise broken. But if there was one thing Hannibal knew, it was that once his mind had been made up there was no turning back. And now that it had, he marveled at how what had initially seemed a treacherous act against the souls now seemed to him like the greatest of opportunities. A twinge of terrific pain lanced through his shoulder, and as he saw the ramp's foundation being laid he reached under his cloak and massaged the growing, tingling stump of his arm.

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