Armageddon?? (83 page)

Never
too soon, the inner sanctum approached and the passage widened. The first thing
that tipped him off was the stench of blood. He rolled his eyes – Again. The
two sides sometimes made points by bursting into the realm of the other and
slaughtering the guards before dropping back to the relative safety of their
own homes. Once, the raiding parties had encountered each other; it had taken
two centuries to alleviate the tensions from the resulting bloodbath. Another
consequence of the raiding was that only the lowliest, unluckiest demons were
chosen to be the inner sanctum guards; Shakoolapicanthus speculated that the
same was true of the other side.

The
passage opened out into the inner sanctum, a rectangular room as small as
possible. Dominating the chamber, seeming too large for the room in which it
was contained, was the jet-black portal: the last one open between Heaven and
Hell. Creation of portals between the realms had been forbidden at the end of
the Great Celestial War, and only one had been kept open to permit contact and
the occasional diplomatic delegation between Satan and Yahweh. A delegation had
come through recently, Shakoolapicanthus reminded himself; according to rumor,
human magery had destroyed it in the Pit. The higher-ups vehemently denied the
rumors, of course, but that made him all the more certain that something had
happened. Certainly, strange things were happening in Hell, human armies were
fighting in the Infernal Region itself and all the barrack room rumors were of
the humans in the pit rising against their tormenters. It was even whispered,
there was now an area in the pit where no demon dared go, where if one tried,
the penalty was a horrible death by human magery.

The
two guards were lying contorted on the ground, charred in places and
dismembered in others. Blood was spattered all throughout the chamber. But
something was different; standing in front of the portal was a towering white
figure. It was staring at him with its pale, white eyes, and Shakoolapicanthus
felt himself shudder far more than he had passing under the iron portcullis.
This was no mere angel; this was a high-ranking one, one who could probably
crush him as easily as it had these two unfortunates.

Slowly,
like a cornered Beast, Shakoolapicanthus started to back away toward the
tunnel. The angel did nothing for a moment, then flared its wings – they
stretched nearly across the chamber – and said, “Stop.” Shakoolapicanthus
stopped. He was shivering uncontrollably.

Slowly,
the angel raised his sword. It glimmered in the torchlight, bronze lined with
pale gold. The angel was gathering fearsome magic; it was already making
Shakoolapicanthus' hair stand on end. Then it spoke. “Do you know who I am,
fallen scum?”

“N-n-n-no,
sir. I do not.”

“I
am Michael-lan, commander of the forces of the Most High One. I have a message
for the Fallen One from my master. You will bear it to him. Tell him that these
words have come from the Throne of the Nameless One. ‘Satan Mekatrig, despite
previous warnings you have failed to oppress and dominate the humans. They have
forced their way into your realm and still you cannot defeat them. Your
failures in this matter have ensured that the humans are developing into a
threat to the chorus. The gates of Heaven may be closed to any who may wish to
enter but our hosts may leave to engage our enemies at our pleasure. As a last
warning to the humans we have gathered Uriel and the Bowls of Wrath. Your
failures are causing us to intervene against our wishes but the chorus must not
cease. On your head lies what may result.’ Tell him that, and only that.”

The
archangel stepped forward, over the twisted bodies, and touched
Shakoolapicanthus on the forehead. As he did, he released a surge of magic; the
demon howled in pain and surprise as the archangel seared a mark onto his face.
Then, without a backward glance, the archangel disappeared back into the
portal.

Shakoolapicanthus
emerged from the gateway so disturbed he didn't even notice when he bumped his
head on the iron portcullis. He said nothing to the guards, but ran as fast as
he could to the stairs, and took them up as fast as he could. Five minutes
after a brief meeting with his garrison commander, he was on the back of a
surging Beast, heading from the Heavengate into the Elysian Fields, toward the
city of Dis.

Camp
Hell-Alpha, Hellmouth, Martial Field of Dysprosium, North of the Phlegethon,
Hell

Abigor's
room was pretty spartan, but someone had apparently taken the notion that he
might like some plants for decoration. Ordinarily, he'd be offended at the
notion that he enjoyed decorations – everyone knew that he used wealth only as
a display of status and not because he was soft and decadent – but these plants
were green, and had flowers on the end, rarities in Hell. They let off a sickly
sweet smell, which Abigor actually liked.

He
sniffed them once more, and then sat back, taking a few minutes to try to
digest everything he'd learned since his surrender. On his left was a towering
pile of DVDs and books on the history of human militaries. It was rich and
fascinating, full of change – nothing like the static, unchanging nature of the
civilized warfare he was used to in Hell.

For
centuries – he was becoming used to the human way of telling time – for
centuries, humans had fought in mostly the same way. Infantry would line up and
charge each other – sometimes with spears, sometimes with swords. Auxiliaries
would harass the enemy lines with projectiles; arrows, stones. Cavalry would
protect the flanks, swoop in and charge the enemies. There were similarities to
what Abigor knew, of course; infantry and auxiliaries would be combined in
Hell, since all infantry could fire projectiles. Cavalry were more important;
in Hell, they made or broke battles. And in Hell, flies were an integral part
of the battlefield; perhaps they were analogous to auxiliaries? Something to
ponder. Humans had not taken to the air before a hundred years ago. The short
human timescale still surprised Abigor; a century ago was yesterday.

But
with the humans, the themes of infantry-auxiliary-cavalry interplay were
repeated in so many variations. In some parts of their world, huge hordes of
men armed with sticks and swords had swarmed each other; in others, disciplined
infantry formed the core of armies; while in others, men had shot their arrows
from horseback. One book claimed that an army was made up of horsemen who could
hit a teacup a hundred yards away from a galloping horse. Abigor hadn't heard
of any demon who could match that feat from a galloping Beast.

And
then, three centuries ago, the human inquisitiveness, curiosity – the human
tendency to treat the world as a problem to be solved, rather than a place to
live, their almost desperate need to know why – had apparently begun to reward
humans. Three centuries ago seemed like last week, when humans were nothing but
cattle, to be tortured for benefit and eaten as delicacies. Yet it seemed that
no matter what question they asked, the answers that they found were
immediately turned into weapons of destruction.

Abigor
considered the benefits they had reaped. The ability to throw projectiles
further, faster, more frequently, and more accurately seemed to be the chief
benefit; it had reshaped the battlefield. Humans could now throw projectiles
over the horizon, on long arching curves that impacted precisely where the
humans wanted them. It seemed that their entire ground combat doctrine, Abigor
now saw, was shaped around using these 'guns' – what he had called fire-spears
– as effectively as possible. The accuracy with which humans could throw
projectiles explained why they fought like cowards. Their goal was to win the
battles; so instead of presenting themselves entirely and honorably, they
presented as small a target as possible while still permitting themselves to
throw back.

And
then there was the question of flying chariots, which were known to humans as
'aircraft'. They flew higher and faster than flies and their firepower was far
beyond the flies. The same magic – Abigor caught himself; there was no magic
here. There were only skills he did not understand. The same ability that let
humans throw projectiles such long distances and with such accuracy also
permitted them to create 'bombs', which could be dropped with great accuracy .
The seeker lances – 'missiles' humans called them though why was an odd thing
that Abigor had yet to fathom out since they never missed – were another
manifestation of the same abilities: projectiles that flew like aircraft and
sought out their target.

Before
the destruction of his Army, he had seen how the human aircraft had decimated
his flies and he had thought that was the end of it. Now, he knew differently,
human aircraft could do many things, they could wipe out flies with
contemptuous ease but they could also raid death and destruction on the ground
forces. He had seen a little of that but only a thin shadow of what human
aircraft could do when unleashed to use their full power. He had seen how the
humans themselves had been forced to invest huge sums in the development of
anti-aircraft weapons to defend themselves against aircraft. That was something
Satan didn’t have to worry about deploying, there wasn’t an anti-aircraft gun
in all of Hell.

And
then there were the human boats. They were larger than any boat he'd ever seen;
anywhere you needed to go in Hell, there were roads, or Belial's wyverns if the
place was inaccessible. The human boats had guns on them, and could also throw
missiles. Some even had aircraft on them, and some could actually swim under
the water to throw missiles or hunt other boats. Abigor thought of the seas
that surrounded Hell’s one great continent and imagined the human boats loose
in them. All of Hell would be at their mercy with only Dagon’s few legions of
Kraken to defend it.

So
much to absorb. Abigor shook his head. Most bombs, missiles, and artillery
shells exploded like injured flies, while other projectiles were solid iron.
Some were thrown from guns, and others were dropped or thrown from aircraft.
These new things were all so confusing in the details, but in general he was
starting to absorb the picture of how humans did things. They fought to win –
that much he'd already seen. But they didn't fight to win by outmaneuvering……
Abigor stopped himself, that wasn’t true, human armies could maneuver in ways a
demonic army couldn’t even dream of. To humans though, maneuver was a way to
bring overwhelming firepower to bear on their enemy with the aim of
annihilating either his desire or his ability to fight – or, in some cases,
both.

The
DVDs he'd seen had been particularly illuminating. He'd had no idea how
ferocious humans were to each other, and the scale of the battles that had
raged across the human world even in the last century – the last few days, to
him – stunned him. How had they come so far in so little time? He'd seen lines
of chariots – trucks – stretching for miles, throwing their projectiles into
the air all at once. The sound was familiar to him, the thumping of artillery
and the scream of inbound shells and rockets. They still took him back to the
battlefield in the human world, where he'd watched his army disintegrate around
him; he still had nightmares about that.

He'd
seen lines of trenches, with humans running about in them – and in between
them, a charred, muddy, churned-up wasteland that was as bad as anything in the
Pit. Coils of razor wire criss-crossed that little hell, and guns crashed and
chattered across while artillery lobbed back and forth. Once, he saw a flood of
humans boil up out of one trench and charge into the hell, only to be scythed
down. One had made it back to the trench.

He'd
seen a coastline lined by razor wire and huge guns, and the dawn bring with it
a sea of iron – boats as far as the eye could see, all firing at once, as people
once more charged bravely into the crossfire from small boats that scuttled
like beetles up to the beach.

He'd
seen the view from above of a jungle wasteland with craters evenly spaced as
far as the eye could see, as a line of explosions marched up the screen. The
trees looked like grass, and the people running about looked like ants.

Abigor
shook his head again. The myriad, creative ways humans had found to destroy
their enemies were mind-boggling. Then a strange thought came to his mind,
based around the way the humans had suddenly changed from a primitive mob that
was just walking meat to a demonic army to the pitiless killers against whom no
demonic army could stand. Oh, Abigor had heard the guns thundering, tens of
leagues away as a human army stood against the sledgehammer blows of the
combined armies of Asmodeus and Beelzebub, and in his mind’s eye he could see
what was already happening, the demonic horde screaming and dying under the
pounding of the human guns. One of his books had expressed it so well,
‘Artillery is the King of War, Infantry is the Queen of the Battlefield. And it
is well known what the King does to the Queen.’

Abigor
shook his head, it had all happened so suddenly. Three centuries from helpless
victims to the Lords of War. Unnaturally quickly. Had there been another hand
here? The way the humans had fought each other, each set of wars driving their
weapons technology further forward and setting the conditions for the next set.
As if humans were being trained to fight, bred to destroy both Satan and
Yahweh. Abigor could see now why Yahweh had washed his hands of them, the
human’s driving need to know had caused them to reject his teachings and
ready-made answers in favor of finding their own. They had even laughed at
Yahweh’s pronouncements, and dared his prophets to “prove” their doctrine. When
the prophets and true believers had repeated Yahweh’s rulings, they’d been
faced with the human battle-cry ‘prove it’ and ridiculed the prophets with
evidence of the truth. There was even a slogan they used for such contests, one
Abigor had spotted somewhere. “Science, and mockery of stupid people.” It was
quite clear who they meant by the stupid people bit, Yahweh himself. No wonder
he had been annoyed with them