For an instant he had seen, through the billowing ash, Lord Astaroth's blue and shimmering Great Seal. Faraii's troops, with orders to capture the enemy lord, had finally entered the fray, and Eligor, with his lord's approval, had vowed that he would not miss that eventuality.
* * * * *
Eligor had never seen the Baron's sword-work so eloquent, so deadly upon the battlefield. He had seen Faraii practice many times, even witnessed him in battle before, but this was something special. The Waste-wanderer's black blade flitted from victim to victim fluidly, wielded by an artist of death with an eye trained like no other's in Hell. And in contrast, behind him, his Shock Troopers' axes hacked a wide avenue of destruction that left nothing but mounded stone and powder. They were as artless in their killing as Faraii was talented— his tutelage could never give them his elegance. Astaroth's legionaries were chopped and tossed up above them as cleaved limbs and heads and torsos, only to bounce down upon their dark armor as rock to be crushed into black gravel beneath their heavy feet.
Did Astaroth know what fate was fast approaching? Eligor wondered. Surely he must. Or, seeing Sargatanas' line bending, did Astaroth think he was winning the day? Anything was imaginable in the confusion of battle, especially when one was losing.
Eligor and his cohort of demons hung above Faraii, watching his progress as he carved his way toward Astaroth's position upon a folded and veined rise. The Baron was always easy to find, the train of flames that licked out from his breastplate-vents lit all around him. From where he hovered, Eligor could actually see the tightening periphery, the noose of Sargatanas' encircling army drawing tighter and leaving nothing alive outside of its confines. And, with grim fascination, Eligor watched Faraii's demons stab deep into the body of the remaining enemy troops, plunging toward the heart that was Astaroth.
Eligor felt a hot wind gathering up from the south. Unimpeded upon the barren, now rock-strewn plain, it was gaining strength, and he saw in the distance that it brought with it heavy, dark clouds. He hoped that the battle would be over by the time they arrived; he would have to ground his flyers when the storm passed over.
The airborne demons passed through a broad, dense plume of smoke and were enshrouded in disorienting darkness. Command-glyphs sizzled past him, fiery arrows pointing his way out, and when Eligor burst into clear air it was only to realize just how close he was to the battle's center.
The fighting had reached an intensity that he had rarely seen; Astaroth's demons, true to their orders, were yielding only in death. Looking with admiration at Faraii, at the maelstrom he was within, Eligor excitedly realized that the battle's end was nearly at hand. Hanging in the air no more than a hundred yards before him and his flyers was Astaroth's blue-fire Seal, crackling with intensity, while, lit by its cool glow, the Baron and his demons were engaged with the Demon Major's last defense, his implacable bodyguard. Dressed in their characteristic patterned and dyed skins, they fought to protect their lord with tiring sword arms, valiantly, grimly, and they fell where they stood, one after another, before the terrible onslaught.
Small pockets of demons fighting desperately in knee-high ash dotted the battlefield, but to all intents and purposes the battle was won; Sargatanas had easily carried the day.
A glyph sped into Faraii and Eligor read it; Sargatanas was on his way. Almost simultaneously the last of Astaroth's bodyguards fell beneath Faraii's sword and the Baron contemptuously lifted his iron-shod foot and crushed the upturned cleft face. The bodyguard crumpled inward, providing the Baron with yet another phalera to apply to his breast, she disdainfully shook the dust from his foot. And there stood the Great Lord Astaroth along with his sole remaining field marshal, Nebiros. The panting troopers, ax-hands hanging, surrounded them, creating a huge wall of dull, dark armor that contrasted with the pair's tempered-topaz armor. Ash and grit were all that remained of Astaroth's army, and it eddied around him in sere winds like a vortex of dark, disappointed ghosts.
He stood unbowed, head high, but to Eligor's eyes the Great Lord looked hollow and tired. Ribbons of protective glyphs twined and wove about his body, and his face morphed continuously, uncontrollably. Only momentarily did Eligor see the old demon's face as he remembered it, and it looked withered and gaunt. Astaroth looked at Nebiros and then down at the baton of command in his hands and, with the slightest shake of his head, knelt and proffered it to Faraii. Nebiros followed suit and remained kneeling, looking up at the Baron with undisguised resentment.
"A most remarkable performance, Baron Faraii," Astaroth said, his voice dry and quiet. "You and your troops are a credit to your lord. Rarely have I seen such zeal. But then you are something of a legend in my wards ... or what is left of them."
"It is good to be highly regarded," Faraii said with an air of confidence, snapping the two batons away from their owners.
"I did not say that, Baron. Rumors still abound since you departed my Wastes."
Faraii's eyes narrowed fractionally.
Astaroth took a deep breath and gathered himself. Eligor knew what would follow; he was familiar enough with the Ritual of Defeat. During Sargatanas' campaigns he had witnessed it many times. "I must concede defeat," Astaroth said, "and, as per the ancient Compact of Demons Major, I, Great Lord Astaroth, humbly ask you to bring me before your lord, the victorious Lord Sargatanas, that he may do with me as he will."
Faraii, Eligor saw, was looking down, weighing the two batons in his hand. He turned and handed them to a hulking trooper. When Faraii returned his gaze to Astaroth it was with his black sword again in hand. With a lazy twist of his wrist he sliced Nebiros' head from his shoulders. The breath caught in Eligor's throat as he started forward. Giant Shock Troopers effectively blocked his and his flyers' way. Eligor realized that even if he and his small cohort could take wing they could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. He could only bristle and watch impotently.
Patting the steaming Nebiros phalera in place upon himself, Faraii gazed for a moment at Astaroth. Faraii tilted his head like a stonemason regarding a block, envisioning it in its reduced form. He was an artist, after all.
"You have no intention of bringing me before Sargatanas, do you?"
Faraii paused. "No."
"Are you no longer loyal to him?"
"His crusade is not mine."
"Be careful, Baron. Remember what you see here at Maraak. When you are facing him across a battlefield."
"Sound advice, indeed, from a broken, old demon. I will be doing Hell a favor by destroying you."
Faraii backed up slowly, leaving Astaroth alone in the circle of Shock Troopers. Faraii caught Eligor's eye, held it for an instant, and then turned away grinning. Whether it was upon a signal from the Baron or not Eligor never knew, but he saw the troopers set upon the kneeling demon with a fury. He closed his eyes. Their ferocious snarls and the sounds of the Great Lord's demise lingered terribly in the air.
Eligor opened his eyes in time to see Astaroth's Great Seal fade away. He saw that Faraii was nowhere to be seen and saw, too, his lord and Valefar arrive on foot, their gaze flashing over the scene.
"What is happening here?" Sargatanas said to Eligor over the din. "Where is Lord Astaroth?"
"He is no more, my lord. There was nothing I could do."
Sargatanas' eyes widened. "Who did this, Eligor? Who disobeyed me?"
Eligor's insides twisted. The admiration, the loyalty, and the closeness he felt for Faraii were suddenly unclear. But his fealty to Sargatanas was not.