Eligor saw Faraii and his troopers running to create a wedge in front of their lord. As big as they were, they ran easily, powerfully, their thick ax-hands swinging low at their sides. Eligor, remembering Faraii's ceaseless training, now admired their discipline and their merciless teacher for it.
The legions' steady tramp could be heard—almost felt—as high as Eligor flew. He banked to the left, coming around until he was over the left wing cavalry, a full brigade of troops who referred to themselves as the Spirits. Eligor had been told, long ago, that this name was out of deference to the souls they rode and bonded with. Now, led by Valefar on the one side and his tribune, Karcefuge, on the other, those expertly ridden souls were walking slowly, matching pace with the center legions. Eligor knew, even without flying there himself, that on the right wing an identical brigade was advancing, lance-hands seated, in a similar fashion.
Returning to the center of the line, he saw Sargatanas issue the command-glyph to halt, a great glyph that rose high, vertically like a banner, so that all could see it; his army was more than halfway to where Eligor knew Astaroth's many legions waited. Eligor circled lower, keeping his eyes fixed on his lord, watching him prepare for the battle to come. Seated upon his plodding war steed, Sargatanas composed himself, chin down, hands upon the flexing sword that lay atop his saddle, his back straight. He seemed relaxed and Eligor saw him fade into a state with which he could not identify, a state that, undoubtedly, balanced the phantom armies in his mind that needed his commands and the physical armies in the field that needed his sword arm.
Sudden puffs of hot, spark-laden vapor vented from Sargatanas' flared nostrils, blown out in short, sharp exhalations; some decision had been reached. A few small glyphs appeared above him, blossoming larger and heading off toward the troops. Dozens of horns, made hollow and eerie from the distance, acknowledged their receipt. These were just the beginning of a fountain of glyphs, a fiery cascade of orders that Eligor knew would flow from his master as long as the battle lasted, whether he was engaged in combat or not. Such were the manifold powers of a Demon Major that he could split his awareness, enabling him to wield the legions as he did his own sword. As the armies con-verged and the glyphs came more rapidly, Eligor grasped his lance more tightly, grateful that he had only to fight.
* * * * *
Much to his disgust, Adramalik found himself accompanying the Duke Fleurety and his ten legions well to the rear of Astaroth's army, there, he knew, more as a symbol of support than a perceived weapon of final resort in the event that things went badly. Marching behind the ragtag legions, he mused that it was more than likely that he would not see action, that Astaroth's army would be obliterated quickly, leaving the demons of Dis to simply fade away to do the Prince's bidding. Adramalik could see that this army of Astaroth's was as poorly trained as it was ill equipped. Most would undoubtedly perish against one of Sargatanas' relatively small but well-trained border armies. Fleurety, empowered with a seal from the Prince, would step in and assume control in the Prince's name of the old demon's wards while Astaroth would be offered exile in Dis—a choice even he could not be foolish enough to dismiss. And after Astaroth had been escorted back to Dis, after he had fulfilled his master's misbegotten sense of honor, Adramalik vowed to ask Beelzebub to send someone else on these kinds of official missions. His place was with his Knights, not serving as escort to an impotent lord. For now, Adramalik rode next to the Duke and off in the distance Astaroth and his army etched their fate upon the ash-gray ground with each footstep.
* * * * *
The two lines met with a thunderous impact, like that of many massive stones colliding. Eligor saw the long, continuous point of contact flicker with the incessant sparking of tempered-stone weapons upon tempered-stone armor.
Sargatanas, Eligor saw, was keeping his troops' line taut, neither advancing nor falling back. The demon lord, protected by Faraii and his enormous Shock Troops, had moved slowly toward the front line of his legions while Valefar and Karcefuge were keeping the Spirits in place.
A shroud of smoky ash began to ascend where the two armies met, blanketing their frenzied ferocity in gray and muffling, somewhat, the clash of arms. Astaroth's legions fought with an urgency born, Eligor suspected, of the awareness that uncompromising annihilation lay in defeat. There would be no prisoners, no demons left standing to swear allegiance to a new lord. Astaroth had removed that conjured element—that possibility of shifting allegiances— from their seals of obedience. He had committed them that completely in his final cast of the die.
Eligor saw the distant Great Seal of Astaroth dimly through the pall and knew that beneath it that that lord was guiding his army. And for the thousandth time, he wondered how one as great as he could have let his realm sink so far. Turning his gaze behind Sargatanas, he saw his own Guard, lances and shields in hand. Five hundred strong, they awaited his orders with eyes trained upon him, gleaming eagerly.
Sargatanas broke Eligor's momentary reverie. "I do not trust the air to my next command, Eligor. I must be beyond careful when facing Astaroth; he taught me so many of my command-glyphs. Fly to Valefar then, and to Karcefuge as well, and tell them to advance, to draw up the ends of our line."
With a nod, Eligor took wing and sped over the five legions between the center and Valefar. He hovered beside the bone-armored Prime Minister, momentarily admiring his effortless handling of the giant soul-steed.
"Valefar, Sargatanas wishes you to begin drawing up the wings."
"Is Astaroth where we want him?"
"Yes, if he does not alter his position at his army's center he will be enfolded." Eligor paused, looking out at the chaos of the battlefield ahead. "It will be sad to see him under these circumstances, Valefar."
"True, but he will survive. I am to escort him back to Adamantinarx on Sargatanas' orders."
"It will be a quiet journey."
Valefar looked down, frowning. "I had not thought of that."
He shook his head and then, unseating his pike, spurred his mount with the two large spikes on the insides of his boots, and beast and rider leaped forward. Eligor raised his hand and waved Valefar on. The Spirits around him were whining, straining to break into a gallop, and in a few short strides got their wish.
* * * * *
They are advancing too fast, too far. Reckless. What is he thinking?
Adramalik could barely see the rear guard of Astaroth's army as it disappeared across the gray-olive skin of the field and into the haze, and while Duke Fleurety could have issued an order to keep up, he seemed disinclined. So began the betrayal. Just as well, reasoned Adramalik. There was no place for fat upon the bones of Hell. Astaroth, and what was left of his .army, would be absorbed by the urban body of Dis.
Reports had been coming in since the two armies had engaged each other. Sargatanas' destruction of his own town—a bold move after the Demolishers' elimination—had been a surprise, his ruthlessness commendable. And now, when he could have dashed into the unknown and attempted to overrun Astaroth, Sargatanas' restraint was proving admirable. It would be interesting to watch him perform upon this field. The Chancellor General smiled inwardly; Sargatanas could be an enjoyable opponent if it ever came to it. But for now, at least, Adramalik knew the Prince had no interest in confronting him.
* * * * *
As he flew back, after conveying his lord's message to Karcefuge, Eligor saw that the air had grown thick with the gyrating bodies of fighting demons. Both forces had waited until the sky was heavy with smoke to throw their flyers up into the air, an effort to conceal their true numbers. In Astaroth's case it was a prudent measure; it seemed he could not field more than a legion of the winged soldiers, and this he broke up to create the illusion of greater numbers. But it was this very tactic that spelled their destruction as Sargatanas' flyers chopped them into even smaller groups until they were no more, raining their crumbling limbs down upon the combatants below.