Only with some effort could he get the image of the Pit from his mind, and when he realized that he was not at its blasted, icy-rimmed edge but, instead, in the Rotunda, inattentive to his Prince, Adramalik swallowed hard.
"... is this not so, Prime Minister?"
"Yes. My Prince," he said, and had no idea what he was so readily agreeing to.
The buzzing paused.
"And what of the Keep itself and its defenses?"
"Mulciber is locked away and embedded, maintaining the wall just as you instructed, my Prince. The four legions of Keep Janissaries are in position awaiting any potential breach of the gate."
From the corner of his eye, Adramalik saw Agares shuffling slowly away from the foot of the throne and toward the sphincterlike threshold. Beelzebub seemed to take no notice. Probably on his way to his miserable chambers. And why not? He is of no use anymore.
"The Husk?" the Prince asked.
"He is one level below us with Knight-Brigadier Melphagor and as many of my Knights as I felt I could spare from the battlefield."
All this to defend our Hell, Prince, the Hell that you kept in line for so long. The Hell that, indeed, Sargatanas and his followers helped build and would now destroy. For what? His delusional aspirations? He is no heretic; that is where you are wrong, my Prince; he is simply a fool!
Adramalik looked up at the Prince and, not for the first time in recent memory, wondered what it might be like to be Regent of Hell. As this rebellion had grown Adramalik had, in the darkness of his chambers, considered the many ramifications of overthrowing his master. He had never gotten far in his speculations; the impossibility of the act caught him up short every time. Beelzebub was far too strange and unpredictable and powerful to attempt anything against, even as distracted as he was. And so Adramalik had never taken the time to seriously consider a period after the Prince's destruction. But now, with Sargatanas banging upon the Keep's gate, anything seemed possible and Adramalik frequently wondered what he and his Knights could do.
"Yen Wang's Behemoths are being destroyed, Adramalik. They are falling, one by one."
"Yes, my Prince, your design of the wall was flawless," Adramalik said without conviction. "It will take more than a few lumbering siege-beasts to take this Keep."
He saw Beelzebub's finger trace the contour of Rofocale's eye socket. "Leave me, Adramalik, before your patronizing words make me angry."
Adramalik bowed as low as he could, and, with eyes wide, he backed away and out of the Rotunda, relieved that he was still afforded the opportunity. His mind raced as he walked quickly back to the parapets. Was he just that close to being destroyed for so inconsequential a reason? Was it time to go down to his Knights and throw caution to the winds? Time to reach for the throne and either win or suffer the consequences?
But a wave of true fear washed through him and, worse, the acrid, recalled smell of the Pit. And he knew with a sinking, bitter sensation of self-recrimination that, whatever his fate, it would not be linked to any attempted assassination of Beelzebub.
* * * * *
A jagged constellation of lights appeared faintly behind the lambent curtain of clouds that hung about the palace high atop the Keep. Eligor looked down as he flew and saw the new wall and the shimmering glow that it cast upon everything but the darkened, mantle-shrouded Keep within its confines. It is ever dark in there—but that will change. We will let in some light. He was finally growing fatigued and saw that the others around him were wavering as well, having difficulty maintaining the once-tight formations.
Sargatanas' command, the briefest of flashing glyphs, came as no surprise as Eligor neared the dome. He immediately angled downward, followed by the hundreds of Flying Guard behind, lances, hooks, and hammers at the ready. Sargatanas did not actually expect any resistance on the Black Dome's exterior but had made Barbatos and Eligor drill his demons in that possibility nonetheless.
As the dome drew nearer, Eligor saw nothing to indicate that any of the Fly's troops were positioned to defend the regent's palace. The great structure and its countless adjacent minarets were empty, and only a strong, buffeting wind seemed in place to defend the gigantic building.
Eligor's hooks found the spaces between the yielding flesh-tiles and bit deeply in. Feet firmly planted on the dome's hot surface, he folded his trembling, weary wings and turned to watch the dark clouds of his descending troops as a thousand hooks reached out and they landed without mishap. A vertical wind like a hot vortex was rising from around the Keep, and Eligor and the myriad other demons' garments flapped violently, but the hooks remained in place and soon the heavy siege hammers and prying claws were brought to bear. Their sound deadened by the wind and the softer flesh-tiles, the demons' tools worked at the dark swell of the dome for what seemed like an eternity to Eligor. Hammers rose and fell in a fury of activity—activity that he knew was echoed around the dome by Barbatos' demons—but even after many minutes there seemed to be hardly any damage done. There was little Eligor could do but watch and wait for the thick vault to be breached.
* * * * *
Through the billowing ash of battle, Mago, who never strayed too far from Hannibal, saw the dark expression fall upon his face and did his best to fight his way on foot to his brother's side. Mago was a deft swordsman and in short time he had cut a path to the center of the line. The souls' losses were heavy, or perhaps it seemed that way to Mago—the demons left no bodies and he saw only the hacked and broken forms of Hannibal's soldiers lying in deep ash and rubble. They were many.
Hannibal saw Mago approaching but, at first, did not recognize him. Caked in sweat and ash and the black blood of his fallen comrades, he looked like all the other souls save for his distinctive weapon and demon-forged armor. To Hannibal's eyes Mago looked tired, but his spirits seemed high. His sword was welcome; a bristling wall of Rofocale's legionaries faced them and Hannibal had no time for greetings.
Gaha was down on all fours, swiping with its huge front feet and swinging its heavy head to part the solid line of infantry just ahead. Hannibal parried a jabbing halberd and split its owner's head from crown to chin, and even before his blade was withdrawn the demon was crumbling into lifeless rubble. Another halberd immediately took its place, and another, and the two brothers silently chopped at the enemy demons, leading their troops as they had done so long ago, until the line finally buckled and the enemy fell back.
Breathing heavily, Mago said, "Brother, what is it?"
"My last order from Satanachia," he said, leaning from the saddle and wiping his face. "It weighs heavily upon me."
Mago pointed with his sword to another wave of gathering demons and Hannibal nodded.
"No one considered that the Fly would destroy his own city and the ancient bridge to the Keep. Foolish ... it is what I would have done! Satanachia has asked me ... not ordered, Mago, asked ... to bridge the Belt with a ramp."
"But what are we to use for this undertaking? We have brought no native stone to even attempt to ford the Belt!"
"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."