Beelzebub looked sharply at Agares and then back at the Chancellor General. "I thought that would have been obvious ... Prime Minister."
Chapter Twenty-Six
ADAMANTINARX-UPON-THE-ACHERON
Hannibal woke with a start.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes; he knew immediately that he was not as he had been, not whole. Weakly he tried to sit up, but he heard Mago quietly tell him to lie still. He was in an unfamiliar room somewhere, he guessed, in Adamantinarx. Which was a relief, because it told him that the battle had been won.
His entire left arm was gone, traded, he saw, for the immense hooked weapon that lay ominously on the table nearby. It was as long as his arm had been. Strange that it is here, the instrument of my loss.
But stranger still was the tarnished and pitted disk that lay next to it. It was Moloch—or what was left of him. A spoil of war, a prize beyond measure, and, clearly, left for him as an honor. But what, if anything, could he, a soul, do with it: wear it around his neck? He would have to ask Lilith or Eligor.
"Tell me, Mago. Tell me what I missed."
"You are fortunate, my brother," Mago said plainly. "Fortunate to have survived Moloch and more so still to have had the First Consort, herself, attend your wounds."
He thought about the battle and about his confrontation with his ex-god As blurred in Hannibal's mind as was the duel itself, equally sharp was the memory of that furious face.
"And Lord Sargatanas?"
"He lives ... but he is not as he was."
Hannibal looked down for the first time at his vacant shoulder and said "Nor am I."
"No, Hannibal, it isn't like that ... he was wounded, true, but that isn't the change I meant. He is now bone-white from head to toe."
"A miracle?"
"Or a curse. The city is full of rumors, not all good. Some see it as an omen of catastrophe. Lord Yen Wang, in particular, seems uneasy; some of his minions are spreading doubts among the other demons."
"Doubts?"
Mago rubbed his chin. Hannibal could not tell which side of the argument his brother favored.
"The city is in a state that you and I remember well enough from our own fair city ... war preparations. While most believe the officially disseminated story, only a few truly know what happened to him to change him as he now is. Some say it is Lucifer's doing and that he has marked Sargatanas. Or the First Consort's ensorcellment, which, in my opinion, holds a grain of plausibility. Cynics say that he is delusional, mad, and that somehow this has transformed him inside as well as outside. They are in the minority. And the newer allies ... Put Satanachia, whom you haven't met, aside ... seem like little more than opportunists. I might be wrong; that's my impression, though. But all of this creates an aura of uncertainty that runs through the streets like effluvia."
Hannibal knew that variety of poison. During wartime it could be as deadly as a well-aimed arrow. He had done everything in his life to avoid it.
Mago looked down. Hannibal saw his brother's gray hands working at the folds of his Abyssal-skin robes.
"What is it, Brother?"
Mago frowned. "This is not the time."
"Ask."
"Does it not trouble you, this alliance of ours? Demons and souls?"
Hannibal closed his eyes. How could he explain his need to pursue power no matter where he was? Would Mago understand?
"Yes, it does trouble me. If it were any other demon but Sargatanas I would never have had the courage to get involved. Nor would I have had a chance. I'm sure you've noticed that they're not at ease having us as allies, either. Sargatanas isn't like the rest of them. He has a single-minded purity of purpose ... something like my own."
"And just what is your ... purpose?"
"You spoke of opportunists. That would be what we are, Mago. For us, this is a rebellion of convenience. At first, I was swept up by the goal that he held out ... that shining chance to go to Heaven. But now ... especially after the battle ... I just don't know.
"When we were fighting, and the souls around me were being cut down, it didn't seem to me that they were anything but dead, not the living death of being turned into a brick, either. I wondered, 'Will that ever change?' To me, Mago, it's still very much an open question as to whether we will ever have that chance."
Mago stood and turned toward a stone-sheathed wall. He looked up at the glyphs-of-protection that circled the ceiling.
"Does that change anything ... I mean for you as our general?"
"No. You know me, Mago; I'm no dreamer. I'm a realist. I am in Hell and I deserve to be here for what I've done. As do you and all the others. If we cannot go to Heaven, I, for one, won't be surprised. I hope that we can. But, with that said, I will lead the souls with the same vigor I'd have if I did truly believe."
"Hannibal, your entire life was about pursuing dreams."
Hannibal laughed and then winced, clutching his painful shoulder.
"The power I have in the here and now," he said after a few moments, "that's what's important. Could you have imagined, during all those long, torture-filled centuries, that I ... we ... would be in the position we're in now? If I can better our lot here, then that is reason enough to lead."
Mago turned back to the pallet and looked down at his brother. "For you, this is about power?"
"Everything is about power."
"Not everything. Not for Sargatanas."
"That's why he may fail."
* * * * *
He saw her face again and could not believe, with all that he had seen in Hell, that it was still the most affecting image his dream-mind could produce. Funny, a part of him reflected, that the Hell inside his head was more potent than the one outside, that no matter what horrors he saw, it was her shining, trusting infant eyes that cut him to the marrow.
The child spoke his name and it felt like an arrow flying into his breast, but as it was repeated its sound changed, growing huskier and assuming a strange accent until, after a moment, he realized that she was not uttering it. As he awoke he recognized the voice to be that of Lilith, and when he opened his eyes he was looking up into her perfect oval face.
"Hannibal?"
"Yes, my lady."
"How are you?"
"Mending, my lady. With thanks to you."
"Are you feeling 'mended' enough for an answer to your questions about this?" another voice asked. Sargatanas appeared behind Lilith, the disk of Moloch held in his hand.
"My lord!" It had seemed so long since he had seen Sargatanas. He is transformed! Hannibal swung his legs over the side of the pallet and tried to step down, but Lilith put a restraining hand on his chest.
"He seems strong enough, my lord," Lilith said, smiling.
"He will have to be," Sargatanas said. "I need him at the head of his legions."
Sargatanas turned the ugly disk in his hand. Its edges were sharp and jagged, and Hannibal heard them scrape on the demon's hard palm as he regarded it. He seemed apprehensive about the object, almost cautious in the way he handled it.
"Hannibal, there are many things that I can do in this world, but giving you your arm back ... to undo the dismemberment ... is not among them. There are ways, though, that you can, once again, have a living limb, but to do this I would need, simply put, a catalyst ... an object of power that would add the necessary new elements to my abilities. This," he said, holding the Moloch disk up between his thumb and forefinger, "is one such object.
"And how would that be done?"
"I would have to place this inside your shoulder."
A ripple of fear spread through Hannibal as he unconsciously reached for his shoulder. To enfold the ex-god within himself was a detestable idea, an act that would embrace the very entity that had caused him so much grief. He shook his head.
"You can, of course, elect to not use the disk. It will be otherwise useless to you ... a simple trophy, well won, to put upon a shelf," Lilith said. "There is no shame in choosing that alternative, Hannibal."