The Heart of Hell Read online

With her kit and her corded device in her hand, Boudica curled up amidst a pile of unloaded freight. While true, reviving sleep was not something she would ever experience in Hell, she knew if she closed her eyes her mind would slow enough that she might drift off a bit. As had been the case since Eligor had reawakened her memories, disjointed images of her Life flashed in her mind, so fleeting that any resonance was lost before it took hold. Instead, she had confused and blurred visions of lush green foliage and rocky outcrops and animals. She saw a large red spotted deer, antlers and pelt stained with blood, fending off a pack of wolves. And then he was gone and Boudica sank into the fitful, infernal realm of near sleep.

  When she awakened, it was with a start and she knew almost immediately that something had happened. The archers were standing and kneeling in battle lines three deep, their strange bows at the ready and conjured, fiery-shafted arrows in their hands. Two of the nearby bul-ata, clearly distressed, were making keening sounds and had heavy iron darts protruding from their armored carapaces. Many more were sticking out of the ground and along the upper edge of the improvised wall.

  The demons seemed poised to react but apparently were waiting for a command from Metaphrax and, when Boudica scrambled atop a pile of packs to better see whatever might be over the wall, she saw the Demon Minor, bow in hand, standing with a small contingent of archers and one of the huge bul-ata. Behind it she saw a party of skin-shrouded individuals whom she, at first, took to be souls. But when she saw that they were much taller than souls but not quite as tall as the demons she realized that they were Salamandrines. They wore heavy, strangely cut skin garments that hid their true silhouettes, and their odd movements, slightly jerky and crisp, almost implied that they were jointed differently than both souls and demons. From her vantage point it was hard for her to make out any real details of their accoutrements, but one item that was prominent on the half-dozen Men of Wrath was the long, slender sword that each wore slung over his shoulder. And these blades were echoed in the long line of Salamandrines who sat upon dangerous-looking Skin-skippers behind the six figures speaking with Metaphrax. One Salamandrine, apparently a chieftain, stood conversing with the demon, while just behind him a standard-bearer carried a banner composed of the anthropomorphic skins of souls that flapped in the light wind.

  The demon was speaking and gesturing, his demeanor one of composed command, and then, with little ceremony, he handed the bul-ata over to the Salamandrines he had been addressing and then turned his back and walked steadily back toward the enclosure.

  Boudica watched as one by one the line of Salamandrines turned their steeds away from the demons’ encampment. The Skin-skippers’ patterns of glow-lights almost looked like the demons’ own glyphs, and as she watched the riders depart into the low, dark ash she was left with the impression of twinkling lights melting away into the darkness. As she climbed down from the piled baggage, assisted by Styjimar, she was not wholly certain as to why she felt an odd admiration for the Salamandrines. She had barely been able to see them. But the feeling was there.

  “And that is how we ensure safe passage from here to the Far Wastes,” Metaphrax said somewhat smugly to Boudica as he reentered the encampment and walked past her to Styjimar. But, as camp was broken down and the bul-ata were made ready, inchoate fears suddenly struck her and she wondered whether it was really that easy to buy the Salamandrines’ indifference.

  With her mounted and once again heading steadily toward the distant Wastes, Boudica’s uneasiness did not dissipate. The shadowed land seemed perfectly suited to canny warriors who could vanish into the low hills like ash on the wind. And now, as she gazed into the low-hanging, smoky clouds, she not only thought she saw the huge, vague forms that had seemed so elusive earlier, but she also now thought she saw parties of mounted Salamandrines, fading from hillock to hillock, just out of plain sight. Eventually, she gave up speculating and simply assumed that the caravan was being followed and watched from afar. On occasion she would catch Metaphrax, too, looking into the distance through hooded eyes, his expression unreadable.

  The caravan proceeded into a landscape that grew more strange to Boudica’s eyes with each hill that fell behind them. Great, fleshy formations rose from the ground, many of them looking to her like the enormous bodies of giants cast upon the gray landscape and rotting back into it. She wondered if it was possible that that was exactly what they were.

  Wending its way through valleys created by these imagined or real giants’ splayed limbs, Boudica glimpsed strange, furtive animals flitting from one distant shadow to the next, and she heard them, too, hooting or screeching their warnings to one another. Flocks of sharp-winged predators streamed in and out of the smooth flesh-walled chasms of the promontories while brief flashes of fiery lights bespoke other packs of creatures living amidst the cliffs’ charnel-strewn bases. In fact, Boudica realized, the infernal world outside of the cities was anything but empty of life.

  “These reaches are rarely hunted,” Metaphrax commented. “The creatures here are living as did their ancestors who once lived outside Adamantinarx. Before the great hunts and the exterminations. They are thriving and abundant, but with the new order of things and the spreading outward of souls and demons these beasts will undoubtedly vanish.”

  “I can’t tell with most of them if they are dangerous,” Boudica said.

  “All of the beasts in Hell are dangerous,” Metaphrax said. “And now, with the Rebellion over, we have added a new and hungry and numerous one to this world.” He looked at her, his meaning clear, his smile ironic.

  5

  PYGON AZ

  “The city is empty,” Chammon said.

  “So it would seem.” Adramalik tried not to let his own surprise and dismay creep into his voice.

  “But the gate opened.”

  “Perhaps it was never locked and the wind moved it.” Even as Rahab said it, Adramalik knew it not to be the case. The gate was far too massive to be affected by even the strongest gale. And when he had rapped upon it with his sword it had not budged. Clearly, it had been opened from within—probably by some simple glyph sent from somewhere in the distant palace. Which meant they were being watched, and that made him uncomfortable. But the uneasiness he felt was born more of the stark contrast between the windswept, open streets before them and the ancient memory he had of Rofocale’s bustling infernal city.

  The demons found the streets barely easier to negotiate than the endless dark ice tracts of the Frozen Wastes. Originally flagged in the roughened souls typical of most infernal metropolises, the streets were now sheathed in a thick, even layer of smoky ice that seemed as if it had been polished perfectly flat by a million feet. This Adramalik found odd, as he clearly remembered the streets to have been carefully maintained and easily trod upon.

  The party made its way past the low, dark outer buildings, each one’s roof surmounted by low, shimmering blue flames. Though it was called the Black Ice City by all in Hell but its own inhabitants, its name, Adramalik knew, was something of a misnomer—legend said that the city was built of ice. While the ice surrounding the city was indeed black from the ash content, the dark buildings themselves were constructed in the same manner and with the same raw material—souls—as were all the other infernal cities. And, much as it was to be expected, progress regarding the liberation of the souls had not quite caught up with this far-flung realm. The buildings were positioned much as the Grand Master remembered. But something suddenly struck him as he peered up into the dark sky at the roof line. The once-intricate cornices decorated in Rofocale’s typically extravagant style had been crudely chopped away, resurfaced into a simpler, more stark form of ornamentation. Angular, repetitive forms had replaced the curving, flamboyant, zoomorphic shapes that had given the entire city a strange, hallucinatory feel. In all, it had been a very atypical city in Hell, a city very much reflective of the Prince-in-exile who had once ruled within it. Now, with the changes obvious only to him, he felt it resembled Dis more than any othe
r city for its severity. But just as the Fly’s penchant for overblown grandiosity had been a clue to his ego, Adramalik could not help wonder if this stark new aesthetic was indicative of Pygon Az’s new ruler’s temperament.

  Demospurcus’ groan cut the air and Adramalik saw Lucifex carefully set him down and prop him against the icy side of a building. The thick ice surrounding the wounded demon began to melt almost immediately and the dark surface of the bricks emerged. The other demons watched as the heat from their comrade quickly melted the ice upward exposing the wall. Suddenly a long, broad row of bulges that ran the length of the wall was revealed and within the cascade of sheeting water a series of blinking, twitching heads appeared. Water poured from their noses and mouths and the sound of coughing and retching filled the demons’ ears.

  Adramalik looked at the surrounding buildings and saw that each bore the same wide swathe of small bulges and knew that countless heads were embedded in their mortar. As a design motif, it was unlike anything he had seen in an infernal city and yet, from an aesthetic standpoint, it appealed to him. And, it was practical, as well. If, as he suspected, the souls’ eyes were still functional, it would mean that each building could, in effect, be an agent of the city’s court, a means whereby the court could keep track of souls and demons alike. It would take some powerful invocations to create and control the massed visions of countless souls, but a high-level Conjurer—most certainly a Demon Major like Agaliarept—could achieve it. And undoubtedly had. There seemed no other explanation for the arrangement. But who was this reclusive demon, settled into this inhospitable kingdom?

  Adramalik pulled back and saw the other demons also staring at the wall. Chammon had his dagger out and was taunting some of the heads for sport, dragging its tip back and forth across their wincing faces and watching their reactions, while Vulryx was voiding himself against the wall, a fiery stream of urine melting the ice into clouds of steam. The Grand Master grinned. His Knights were ever the disrespectful pranksters.

  A faint scuff from behind and down the avenue made them turn simultaneously. Seven fiery swords were drawn and fired as one and Adramalik saw a strange figure followed by a small retinue advancing toward them. His tall and gaunt silhouette, from a distance, was an intricate assemblage of shapes, some dangling like the skinny arms of Abyssals while others protruded in curving arcs. As he approached, the Grand Master saw the forms more clearly; most were finely carved obsidian or bone ornaments that had been thrust into the bone and flesh of this Demon Minor. He wore the skin of a large soul stretched over his body, the soul’s hands hanging limply from his own wrists. There was a distinctly barbaric, almost primitive look to his adornments, something very unlike the customary manner in which demons decorated themselves. His head, in particular, seemed the focus of extraordinary attention with several large, crescent-ended blades thrust deeply into his skull, cutting all the way down to split his lips.

  Adramalik was nearly as intrigued by this ornately decorated demon as he was by the small group of souls who hung in the shadows behind him. Garbed in long flesh robes, none had heads, their necks cleft cleanly across. And yet they seemed as aware of their environment as any demon or soul he had encountered.

  The gaunt figure stopped before them, his ornaments rattling as he pulled his robe around himself.

  “Why are you here?” Adramalik heard the effort in the demon’s voice to control his destroyed lips. His words were overarticulated and cared for, but the random sibilance was never far away.

  “We seek audience in the court of Prince-in-Exile Lucifuge Rofocale, the Lord of Pygon Az. We are fugitives from Dis and thought to seek asylum in your city.”

  The Demon Minor turned his head to look at each Knight in turn. “Fugitives from Dis?” He paused, the doubt evident in his narrowed eyes. “We offer no sanctuary here. The former Lord of Pygon Az is no longer regent.”

  Adramalik feigned surprise. “Is this so? We heard nothing to suggest he was deposed.” His Knights betrayed nothing.

  “Not only did you know of his demise, but you were, in all probability, present when it happened. I know who you are, former Chancellor Adramalik.” He turned and regarded the other demons. “And this sorry band is all that is left of what used to be a very formidable brotherhood. There was much speculation in my Lord Ai Apaec’s court about where you might turn up … some, including myself, even believed it would be here. My lord argued that you would never be so bold. Or stupid. Now that you are here, you may, at my lord’s pleasure, take up residence. But we will turn you over to Sargatanas’ demons should they come seeking you.”

  Adramalik nodded.

  “Then, as you already know,” Adramalik said, “the Heretic Sargatanas is no more. But his zealots still believe in his cause. Even more so than before. Your … prudence regarding them is duly noted.”

  Even with this reception, he and his Knights had no desire to leave. Quite the contrary. And the likelihood of demons from Adamantinarx venturing this far into the Frozen Wastes to find a handful of renegade demons was fairly slim. Bold or stupid, as this gaudy figure had said. And the misbegotten spirit of post-war reconciliation was far too strong in Sargatanas’ demons. As for this upstart lord who had assumed Rofocale’s throne, he mattered not at all. From what he could sense, this lord was no Demon Major—with Lucifuge gone he knew of none in this frozen realm—and therefore would pose no difficulty to him or his Knights.

  “I thank your lord for his hospitality and understand his decision should the issue of our safety arise.” He paused and then added, “However, we can take care of ourselves.”

  The Demon Minor shrugged almost imperceptibly. He turned and with a slight flick of his head beckoned the Knights to follow.

  Adramalik glanced at his Knights and they fell in behind him, Lucifex swearing as he gathered Demospurcus up. A few paces behind them shuffled the headless throng. They seemed to be the lackeys of the ornate demon, tied to him, perhaps, by their inability to see. He would study them and their relationship to this demon.

  Without turning, the demon said, “You are wondering about my name and my role here.”

  Adramalik betrayed none of the annoyance he felt at having his thoughts so easily perceived. Was it an Art or was it simply that obvious?

  “Once, I was called Xipetotec. But here I am called the Bearer of the Knife.”

  “I see no knife.”

  “I bear it nonetheless.”

  Adramalik made no further comment. He hoped his irritation had been concealed. Mostly.

  They advanced through the city, taking one of its six gradually ascending main avenues in toward its heart. Laid out in a precise hexagram, Pygon Az’s center had been dominated by a six-spired palace that had, in Adramalik’s opinion, looked like solidified black flame. Lucifuge’s wildest imaginings had come to fruition in his palace, a place where his baroque tastes could be indulged without the judgment of his peers. All that was gone now.

  Algol set and the sky darkened. The air was unusually clear and cold and visibility across the black city was perfect. With blue-flamed torches and braziers lit, every icy detail stood out against the dark sky.

  The palace, altered by its new lord, rose in a six-sided pyramid, steeply and aggressively. Its dark sides were tiered and braziers outlined the squared-off parapets. Partial, round-tipped crescent-vanes surmounted each tower so that the overall effect was of a full crescent composed of six giant sections. Little was left of the original buildings and Adramalik even wondered if they had been built over or razed to construct this stern edifice. Perhaps he would see evidence of them when they were closer.

  Vulryx picked up his pace and moved closer to him. Careful to not the let the Bearer hear him, he whispered, “Grand Master, the streets are empty. Where is everyone?”

  “No idea, Vulryx, none.”

  Vulryx dropped back, staring briefly at him and then glancing warily about.

  Adramalik remembered Pygon Az as a flourishing city despite its frigid locat
ion and distance from the other major cities in Hell, remembered, too, the cohorts of the Ice Legions as the ubiquitous backbone of the place. He shook his head slightly. Nothing about this city was as he had represented it to his Knights. What were they making of it? Would they lose their respect for him? Would they mutiny and cast him out onto the ice? He would have to watch them carefully, gauge them for any signs of discontent. Just as he had done back in Dis.

  As they drew nearer to the city center, the Bearer discharged six glyphs that raced ahead, disappearing into the low buildings around the palace.

  The demons and souls continued on toward the palace and began to climb the low, wide steps that accommodated the gradually rising ground of the palace’s foundation. Had there not been steps, the purchase on the icy, angled street would have been nearly impossible for any demon’s clawed foot.

  The nearer they drew to the palace the more ornate the buildings became. Giant statuary, sheathed in black ice, motionlessly mimed the great and obscure events of Pygon Az’s distant past: noble generals triumphing over long-dead Salamandrines, subjugated Salamandrines in every imaginable pose of supplication bested by great demon warriors. Adramalik remembered them as they had been, clean and free of ice, maintained by a lord who had been proud to rule here. Disconcertingly, none of the statues had heads.

  Huge black gates guarded each of the six entrances to the palace, their sloping walls and towers dully gleaming from the ice that encased them.

  “You will be housed within the palace precinct,” the Bearer said, without sounding especially interested. “Each of you will be in a separate domicile.”

  “That is not acceptable,” Adramalik said with as much imperious authority as he had ever used in Dis.

  “It is that or nothing. You can all find yourselves back out on the ice with only the Pit to comfort you.”

  That caught Adramalik up short. He had tried to sublimate his awareness of that place’s proximity, to keep his memories in check, to not even mention it to his Knights. The Pit had been a nightmare within a nightmare, a place he had visited so long ago but never forgotten, a place of such overburdening darkness that the very fires of Hell were a comfort by contrast. He hoped that the Bearer’s words had not been overheard by the demons, but when he turned to gauge their reactions he was dismayed to see the grim expressions on their tired and wounded faces. They had heard.