Satan's Gambit (The Barrier War Book 3) (68 page)

“So you’re
telling me you can steer us in circles,” Gerard said gruffly, teasing him
slightly. “Brilliant, Birch. Just bloody brilliant.”

“Just keep us
moving, Gerard, and leave the rest to me,” Birch said flatly. “I’ll try to
avoid any demons I detect, but be ready for anything. Remember, this is their
home territory, and they’ll have every advantage in terrain and knowledge.”

Birch closed his
eyes and frowned in concentration.

“Now what’s
wrong?” Gerard asked, scowling at Birch’s tense face.

“I’m trying to
find a place to lead us to,” the Gray paladin replied. “I didn’t have the
benefit of compressed travel the last time I was here, and I wandered for well
over a decade before I found Dis. We don’t have that long now, so I need a
definite point of reference to use so I can find my way around.”

“I understood
enough of that to know I need to shut up and let you think,” Gerard grumbled.
“I need Marc here. You’re giving me a headache, Birch.”

“Get used to
it.”

After a few
moments of thought, Birch finally settled on the memory of a shattered temple
near the Merging. His memories of his escape from Dis and journey back to the
Merging were still patchy, and Birch dared not trust that hazy recollection. It
was all well and good to tell Gerard that it was the destination that counted
the most, but Birch still felt more comfortable following a similar path to his
original journey. With his ability to compress their journey, what took him ten
years to do should now be traversed within just a few months, perhaps only
weeks.

“Handy little
trick this,” he murmured to himself, and for the first time he was truly glad
of the demonic
āyus
that had become a part of him.
Not
for
the first time, Birch wondered how much of their struggles were the result of their
“free will” and how much of it was predetermined by a divine entity. Was he
meant
to have the demon inside him for this very reason?

Something his
brother had once said came back to him then.

“When you
think about it that way,” Hoil said, “it makes me more confident that the world
will be safe, because you were the one chosen to save us. I don’t know anybody
else I’d trust with the fate of the world.”

“You don’t
know all the people in the world, Hoil,” Birch objected.

“I don’t have
to. You’re the best.”

Birch smiled at
the memory. Hoil had even more faith in Birch than he himself sometimes had.
Still, Birch had faith that his steps were being guided by a divine hand, and
he prayed that he would be strong enough to fulfill his role.

Hours later,
Gerard called the group to a halt so those still living could sleep. The
members of the blessed dead among them – who needed no sleep – kept watch so
their living companions could enjoy a full-night’s rest. Even Siran and the
Elan’Vital rested easily under their careful watch. Birch lay down and felt
comforted when Selti sedately trotted to his side in his drann form and calmly
curled up in his customary place on Birch’s back.

“You know this
will have to change for good when Moreen and I are finally together,” Birch
murmured over his shoulder. Selti yawned disinterestedly and closed his eyes.

The heat from
the drann body and Selti’s breathing quickly lulled Birch to sleep.

- 4 -

He groaned in
pain and tried not to shift his pain-wracked arms and legs, which were stretched
above and below him to the point of dislocation. Not
past
the point,
just hovering perfectly in a state of intense agony, like a stick bent to the
exact instant before it splinters and breaks. The slightest shift in his body
would push him over the threshold, and his bones would rip free from their
sockets.

He lay
motionless for four hours – he watched time tick slowly by on his dwarven
timepiece across the room. Then the Voice returned.

“Marvelous,
just marvelous,” the Voice said from behind him.

“You enjoy my
torture?” he asked without malice.

“Of course
not. What use have I for physical torture?” the Voice asked. “No, mortal, I was
merely commenting on the strength of the mortal spirit, yours in particular.
The last paladin they abused thus only lasted a few hours before he broke –
physically, mentally, and spiritually all at once. Alefred Montain was his
name, if memory serves.”

“I knew him,”
he said quietly. “He was an instructor of mine, Blue until his reflection
changed and he crossed the Merging. Two years after I became a paladin.”

“Well, you’ll
perhaps be pleased to know he only suffered for a month before they killed him.
They’re very good by now, and death is better than the alternative for most.”

“I would
rather he still lay on the table beside me than what you just told me.”

“Yes,” the
Voice said as though surprised. “Yes, I believe you really would. Interesting.
Of course, I’ve never fully agreed with the business of torture. It doesn’t
suit me.”

“Torture not
suited to a demon?” he scoffed. “As well claim the ocean unsuited for a fish,
or the sky for a bird. Mephistopheles himself has taken his hand at my flesh.”
An involuntary shudder coursed through his body and nearly pushed his limbs
over the limit, but he controlled himself and brought his body back to
stillness.

“Indeed, the
King of Hell is among those
most
suited for such work,” the Voice said.
“Torturers exist to elicit pain and dominance, their entire sense of worth
comes from their victim acknowledging that he can be hurt and is totally in the
power of his captor. When finally their captive yearns for death, thus giving
the torturer the power to deny that desired release, they taste the proverbial
power of God, if you will excuse the phrase.

“As for
Mephistopheles, when you rule by strength and dominance, torture comes as
readily as breathing. I tell you now, mortal, your captors hate you more than
they have ever hated another mortal,” the Voice said in confidential tones,
“solely because you continue to resist them. You’ve been here how long now?”

“Three years,
seven months, eight days, and about nine hours, as best as I can figure it.”

“You see?”
the Voice said, pleased. “And that is why they hate you. You are not afraid of them,
and somehow you retain an impossible hope and spirit. So it is they who fear
you
and must try all the harder to prove their power over you. I encourage you to
resist – I require it even, if you are to be of any use to me. Already you show
great promise, mortal. When the time comes, I sincerely hope you are the one.”

He was silent
a moment in thought.

“You say
torturers aren’t then complete without a victim to give them worth,” he said
finally, “and you admit that demons are perfectly suited as torturers.”

“In the same
way that angels are suited for babysitting and servitude to give meaning to
their existence, yes,” the Voice said with a hint of contempt.

“What they
should I conclude about a denizen of Hell telling me these things?”

The Voice
breathed out a soft laugh.

“I say again,
mortal, I have no taste for torture. Oh, it has it’s uses, make no mistake, but
as for being the torturer… You might say I am perfectly in love with Myself. Of
what use could it possibly be to one who needs no external acknowledgement for
self-worth?”

He shifted
his head ever so slightly, the only physical indication of the thoughts and
possibilities churning within him. Finally he whispered, “Who are you?”

“You know who
I am, mortal,” the Voice replied in a contemplative. “Again, you know. How
curious. And yet the time has not yet come for you to retain that knowledge,
however. You must forget then. Forget, mortal.

“Forget.”

I am forced to wonder what would happen to the soul of
a man who is thoroughly convinced he hasn’t one?

- Kaelus,

“Collected Accounts from the
Pandemonium War”

- 1 -

Malith knelt to
touch the gray clouds beneath his feet. He fingered the sickly growth of
moss-like plants and pondered its meaning. The Black paladin knew as well as
any there was no true life in Heaven or Hell, yet here he was with living
lichens crumbling between his fingers. He vaguely remembered from his days as a
living man there was some speculation about the nature of life and its origins
– something to do with good and evil combined, or some such nonsense.

A plant is
neither good nor evil,
he mused,
so how could its life be made up of
either? Foolishness.

Such knowledge
was pointless, in any event. The moss beneath him could not be used as a
weapon, it provided no tactical advantage, and any further thought given to it
was a waste of his time. Malith deliberately stepped on a thick patch of the
soft, living tissue, and ground it beneath his foot as he walked away.

There was still
no word from Azazel after the unfortunate attack on his makeshift prison camp.
The demon prince was assumed dead, or at least so weakened that he might as
well be. Azazel would be at risk of discovery from both angels and demons – the
first would kill him because of what he was, the second would kill him to
absorb his strength and
āyus
. Malith himself might kill the demon
prince on sight, if only for the joy it would bring him to crush such an
abysmal failure.

To have had
Birch in his grasp and to lose him! Not to mention that accursed elf captain,
Siran. Malith repressed a shudder. That man was death incarnate. Malith knew he
was better than any living swordsman, with the possible exception of Garnet,
who’d beaten him during their one encounter. Still, the Black paladin would
rather face Garnet again than pit himself against Siran.

Fortunately,
there was little chance of them meeting face-to-face. Malith had shifted his
tactics yet again and had divided the demonic horde into five armies, each
under the command of a demon lord or prince, and scattered them about Heaven
with one goal in mind. Converge on the city of Medina and raze it to the
ground.

By dividing his
own force, Malith hoped to fragment the already weak army of the Heavenly
Hosts. The five armies were large enough that it would take nearly all of the
remaining angels and blessed dead to safely overwhelm any one of them, but
doing so would leave the other four a free hand in marching toward the holy
city. Malith had a certain level of respect for his opponents, and he knew only
a foolish commander would ever commit to such a foolhardy tactic.

It would still
take the demons several weeks to reach Medina, however, and all along the way
they were instructed to destroy any unfortified force they came across, so long
as it didn’t slow their advance too much. Malith didn’t want the demons bogged
down with delaying tactics, which included wasting time overrunning the
fortresses the angels insisted on erecting. Now the demon commanders had orders
to ignore such strongholds. They were to ford every river, cross every
mountain, and destroy every angel they came across. No diversions, no detours,
no more delays.

Mephistopheles
was growing impatient, which meant Malith was getting worried. It did not do
well to displease the King of Hell, especially when he was in such an agitated
state. The recapture of Kaelus had gone a long way toward placating the demon
king, but Mephistopheles could practically taste his upcoming victory, and any
delays he considered unnecessary were to be punished swiftly and mercilessly.
Not that Malith would ever let his reluctant followers ever see his need for
haste – any sign of weakness could be a death sentence in an army such as this.

“General
Malith.”

Malith turned
and saw a gremlin kneeling on the ground behind him, trembling slightly.

“Report.”

“General, there
is some activity in the fortress on our left flank,” the gremlin reported.
“Lord Molekh requests your presence and guidance.”

Malith’s lips
twisted. The demon lord had likely said nothing of the kind. Molekh resented
Malith’s presence and authority more than most, and he rarely missed an
opportunity to curse or disparage Malith – just never in the Black paladin’s
presence. He was not a complete fool.

Still, there was
no sense in angering the demon lord further, so Malith quickly went to the
bull-headed demon’s location and stood patiently beside him. Molekh was aware
of his presence, and it was a long game of waiting before he finally was forced
to acknowledge Malith.

“You have come,
general,” the demon lord growled.

“I understood my
presence was requested,” Malith said in an off-hand manner. “I am nothing if
not accommodating to demons worthy of my respect.”

Molekh snorted,
and a tongue of flame leapt from his bovine nostrils.

“What seems to
be the issue, Lord Molekh?” Malith asked.

“There,
general,” the demon said, pointing to a broad slope that led from the nearby
angelic fortress toward Malith’s army. Angelic arrows occasionally streaked out
from the fortress and felled a demon or damned soul who was unlucky enough to
have been targeted, but for the most part they were ignored by the fortress. No
doubt, the angels were still expecting the demons to form up and lay siege.

A week ago, that
would have been the standard tactic, but no longer.

“I fail to see…”
Malith began, then he stopped. Using powers granted by the demon king, Malith
sharpened his vision and finally saw large objects rolling down the slopes of
the fortress. After a moment’s study, he realized they were not, as he first
guessed, large boulders, but rather enormous spheres of ice taken from one of
the three heavenly rivers.