Adramalik followed as Moloch and the staff entered the empty town. Old weapons, swords, long spears, and hatchets lay about everywhere, some in piles, others strewn randomly amidst the rubble. How old they were or why they had been left behind Adramalik could not begin to guess.
The light wind that had been easy to ignore picked up and grew turbulent, blowing ash in thick swirls that seemed alive in their determination to attack the warriors; some thought they saw the telltale tendrils of glyphs woven into the shifting fabric of the clouds. Aware that the winds whipping in from over his wards might be an artifice of Sargatanas', Moloch's legions took a full day, under the slitted, watchful eyes of their leaders, to pass cautiously through and around the town, flowing down into the valley between the ridges like a dark and viscous liquid. There, as they built their fortified camp, each of them saw the distant lights of Sargatanas' encamped army, a broad and incandescent swath of fires and picket-sigils that stretched into the distant gloom. Flanked by his two Knight-Brigadiers, Melphagor the Primus and Salabrus, Adramalik stared into the carpet of light and tried to gauge the strength of the opposing force but found that it was impossible due to the obscuring clouds.
"They have no idea what they face, Chancellor General," Melphagor said in his hoarse voice, relishing the thought. Wisps of fire flicked at the burned corners of his mouth. "Sargatanas is as misguided as he is indecisive."
"I have seen otherwise, Brigadier. Sargatanas is no mere upstart to be ridiculed and easily shunted aside."
"Yes, and Moloch is no mere general. Are you doubtful of our coming success, Adramalik?"
Adramalik's eyes narrowed. This was no time for the shadow of suspicion to fall upon him. Not with the prize so close. His trust for the Brigadier was significant, born in battle and in the Keep. But trust, in Hell, went only so far, and Adramalik's was a coveted position.
"Not in the least," he said smoothly. "I am simply saying, Melphagor, that while we may have greater losses than the Prince or Moloch expect, the battle's outcome has never been in question."
Melphagor smiled, seemingly satisfied.
A squadron of pinpoint lights, winged scouts keeping watch, banked across the sky over the enemy encampment. What is he planning? Clearly he did not want us near his precious city.
He turned back to the growing camp and was rewarded with the sight of dozens of their own protective picket-sigils blazing to life with a loud hiss. They would not withstand Sargatanas himself but would, at least, slow him down were he to be foolish enough to attack them where they were en-camped. Adramalik looked at the two scarlet-swathed field officers and knew that what he was about to say would appeal to them.
"I want both of you to understand something. Moloch's personal protection is Moloch's business. If he has any bodyguard at all, it is little concern of ours. We enter into this battle for the enduring glory of the Knights of the Order of the Fly, not to further the general's cause. Do I make myself clear?"
The two brigadiers nodded curtly, hands flat to their chests, claws extended outward in salute. Adramalik saw their predictable and savage grins and knew that they would relish spreading the word to all their fellow Knights; there was no loyalty to be had for the ex-god. As powerful as he was, Moloch would have to be very careful indeed to survive an enemy assault upon his person. And survive he might, but the Chancellor General vowed it would not knowingly be with his aid or that of his Knights.
With a decisive victory and some good battlefield luck Adramalik would have his kingdom soon. The Prince's grasp, he realized, felt looser already.
THE FLAMING CUT
"They are out there, my lord, just over that rise," said Eligor loudly over the winds, folding his wings to enter the main campaign tent. Situated on the top of a small hillock in the middle of the camp and denoted by its giant seal, it commanded an excellent view. But exposed as it was, the wind played havoc with its skin sides, creating an enormous flapping sound that was difficult to ignore.
"And the town beyond?"
"No one walks its streets."
Sargatanas pulled back the skin-door flap and looked out over the ash-shrouded expanse between the two crouching armies. Past his huge camp he could see the ground-sheets of gray flesh undulating as if his hot, summoned winds were rippling them. Less distinct because of the ash clouds were the two soaring sheets of red flame that, topping the twin ridges, gave the region its name.
"Hannibal?"
"The Soul-General is concealed and in position with his troops, awaiting your commands."
As they spoke, a series of glyphs began to stream from Sargatanas, speeding away toward the camp's many generals' tents—orders to assemble, the Captain noted. It was beginning.
Eligor waited silently with the Demon Major standing beside him in the doorway of his huge tent, a calm, motionless figure with eyes closed, a corona of glyphs emerging from his brow and forming a circle of luminosity that hung in the dark.
Presently, Sargatanas' general staff began to appear, some by wing, others quickly by foot. As they entered the tent, each demon wiped away the ash and passed before his lord solemnly greeting him, their expressions ranging from clench-jawed determination to glittering-eyed eagerness. Taking up positions in the growing rows, they first knelt and then sat upon folding camp stools, their silence a measure of their anticipation and respect. Eligor watched them, impressed, not for the first time, that his lord had gathered such a disparate yet formidable host of followers.
When Eligor turned back it was the lean figure of Baron Faraii who stood, framed by the doorway, bowing stiffly, before Lord Sargatanas. "My lord," Faraii said quietly, "I thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead my troopers once again."
Sargatanas nodded curtly and gestured for the Baron to enter, his eyes following him and watching, Eligor guessed, the other generals' reactions as Faraii took his seat.
Lord Valefar entered and was greeted with a grin by Sargatanas. The Prime Minister, hefting his sword, waited by his lord's side to accompany him to the head of the gathering.
Sargatanas looked wryly at him, indicating the sword, and said, "I see you have brought my old friend with you."
Valefar, looking amused, said nothing but patted the sword's hilt affectionately. Eligor wished he could have been present when the sword had been revealed to Sargatanas.
When no more demons appeared at the entrance, Sargatanas and Valefar walked the length of the tent and stopped just in front of the seated figures. Eligor saw that his lord had shifted his armored form to accommodate the many cascading winglets and fins that hung elegantly about him like a multilayered cape. Half his height above him his Great Seal hung, casting its steady, fiery glow upon his head and shoulders. In his hand was the curved sword Lukiftias, which twitched and trembled, eager, it would seem, for the impending battle.
"Brethren," he began in a clarion voice that sliced through the sounds of the wind and the flapping of the tent sides, "brethren, it would be all too easy, looking out across the plain toward the Cut, to lose our will, to think that nothing could overcome the forces of Moloch that we will face today.
"I will not lie. I cannot tell you that we will not suffer losses, perhaps even great losses. The armies we face are huge indeed, but as the battle unfolds you will see that I and Lord Valefar and each of you have more than evened the odds. We bring an advantage to the battlefield in the very legions we are fielding, in the shape of weapons and warriors of which Dis itself has never conceived.