Armageddon?? (62 page)

Also
present on the platform was Captain James Shanklin, who was flanked by a pair
of demonic guards and looking extremely pale.

“I
have one!” Castellean Zatheoplekkar's shout broke the silence. “A male, in a
city... called Not-Ingham.”

Within
seconds Belial Kornakat was towering over his vassal. “Show me.” Belial entered
Zatheoplekkar's mind and from there followed the psychic link to the possessed
human. Through his eyes he saw a cramped, cluttered room, dominated by a large
glowing picture of two seated humans. Curiously the picture seemed to be
moving. Belial pressed harder, mentally wringing the mind of the man for
information, faintly amused by the pain he was causing.

“His
name is Christopher Hughes. He lives alone, but in a crowded part of the city.”
A rasping chuckle escaped Belial's lips. “He believes us to be a fiction
invented by their nobility, for the purpose of...” the demon struggled to
extract sense from the human's chaotic mind “placing all nations under the
dominion of the You En.” He looked questioningly at the human traitor, who had
been instructed to keep close by his side.

Captain
Shanklin found his hands trembling again. “My lord, I have never heard of this
'U N'. Most likely it is a wild fancy of his. But I do know of Nottingham. It
is a city of two hundred thousand souls a mere twenty-five miles south of
Sheffield.”

Euryale
seemed less satisfied than her lord. “That is closer than 'Birmingham', but still,
I would rather not send my handmaiden into the heart of a large human city. You
have spoken at length on the potency of their new weapons. The chance of
failure is too high.”

Belial
frowned. “Keep that one possessed.” he instructed Zatheoplekkar. “Very well. I
will allow you another hour, no more. Then she goes.” He gestured at
Lakheenahuknaasi, who looked nearly as uncomfortable as Captain Shanklin.

Fifty
minutes later, the only other Nephilim that the assembled demons could locate
was in Leeds, which if their tame human was to be believed seemed little better
than Nottingham. Lakheenahuknaasi considered her options. She could wait until
nightfall, but if she flew low over a settlement filled with humans she was
still likely to be seen. If the rumors about the fate of Abigor's harpies were
true this could be a suicidal proposition. Perhaps it would be better to
enthrall a few humans and get them to sneak her out of the city somehow.
Undignified, but less likely to get her killed by the humans. On the other
talon, delaying for long enough to disrupt the Count's schedule would likely
get her killed on her return, if she was allowed to return at all.

Lakheenahuknaasi
's musings were interrupted by an excited squeal. “Sire, sire, I have one! A
human woman! She is in an uninhabited wilderness, somewhere to the west of the
target.” He shrank back as the Count forced his way into the psychic link. “As
you can see my lord, vanity was her undoing.”

This
time Belial let loose with a full-blown maniacal laugh. “Indeed I can
Guruktarqor.” The human female was cleaning her hair in some kind of indoor
waterfall. For some reason, the mysterious effect that was protecting humans
from entanglement had ceased to work with this one. A few minutes of
vulnerability were enough to allow the demons to find her and gain purchase in
her mind. “That one will be going directly to the eighth circle.” He nodded to
Euryale.

All
eyes were now on the hall's central platform, which now stood empty save for
the gorgon queen. She spread her wings and closed her eyes, joining the psychic
link to the possessed human girl and focusing intently on that target. Static
discharges resembling miniature sheet lightning danced over her wing membranes
as she poured psychic force into the connection. Several pregnant seconds
passed before finally the familiar black sphere of nothingness swelled into
existence in the centre of the room.

Belial
gestured to a waiting squad of lesser demons. “Entertain me.” The small strike
force was eager, loyal and expendable. Roaring battle cries, the demon warriors
charged single-file into the portal and disappeared. The count closed his eyes,
concentrating on distant events. A vicious grin slowly spread over his face.
His eyes snapped open again and fixed on Lakheenahuknaasi. “Now it's your
turn.”

Chapter
Forty Four

Command
Building, Camo Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium

“When
can I take my command to battle?”

“Say
what?” General David Petraeus stopped admiring his fifth star and gazed at the
massive baldrick in his office.

“I
have over 300 tridents. Where would you like us to fight? Now that we have
joined you.”

Petraeus
looked slightly bewildered. “You and your men are prisoners of war. We don’t
expect you to fight.”

Now
is was Abigor’s turn to be bewildered. “But we surrendered to you. So we should
fight for you now.”

“Not
according to our rules you don’t. When an enemy surrenders, they get put in a
prisoner of war camp. We look after them and feed them until the war is over,
then we send them back home.”

Abigor’s
jaw dropped open. If Hellish Armies fought that way, both side’s foot soldiers
would surrender as soon as possible. In hell, surrendering meant changing
sides, not a way out of the fighting. “You humans are impossible.”

Petraeus
thought quickly. He guessed he would need a convincing story to make sure
Abigor forgot any idea of joining the fighting. Anyway, his baldricks would be
a liability on a battlefield dominated by artillery and armor. “Look, the Free
Hell Army is much too valuable to us to throw away on a battlefield. We know
nothing about Hell, what its like and how its run. You can do far more for us
by telling us everything you know than by fighting.”

Meaning
we are useless to the humans Abigor thought grimly, but if that were the case,
why was he being kept alive? Still, to be a source of information was better
than nothing.

“Excuse
me Sir. General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov to see you.”

“Thank
you Private. Send him in.” There was a brief pause while the Russian entered
the room, his jaw dropping at the sight of Abigor’s huge form sitting sprawled
in one corner. “Ivan Semenovich, it is good to have you with us. May I
introduce Grand Duke Abigor, formerly in the service of Satan and now commander
of our allies in the Free Hell Army.”

Dorokhov
looked slightly flustered, starting to salute, changing his mind, and wondering
what to do next. In the end he settled for a curt nod of the head. Abigor was
equally flustered, normally he’d have hit the ground and groveled, throwing in
a good foot-licking as well but he’d quickly learned humans had nothing but
contempt for such displays. In the end, he returned the nod.

“Are
your troops in position, Ivan Semenovich?”

“First
Shock Army is setting up along the banks of the Phlegethon. We have four
armored divisions, two artillery divisions in position with the Army artillery
setting up. Do you know how many enemy there are?”

“Abigor
tells us 243 legions, that’s over 1.6 million Baldricks. Don’t know how they
divide up yet.”

“That
depends on who is their commander.” Abigor’s voice was thoughtful. “Asmodeus,
Beelzebub and Dagon were the three appointments I heard but that was for the
invasion of Earth. Do you know which?”

“Its
not Asmodeus. He’s dead.”

“What?”
Abigor was stunned. “Asmodeus dead? For all his mania, Satan has never dared
kill a Grand Duke before. He wouldn’t even kill me, he preferred to send me
where you could do this.”

“Satan
didn’t kill him, we did. Or rather, the people we have fighting in the hell-pit
did. Apparently he led some of his army against our guerillas, walked into a
trap and they got him. Asmodeus is dead all right. Thoroughly blown up”

Abigor
was awed. “You have done the unthinkable. Even in the Celestial War, no Grand
Duke was ever killed. Not even Yahweh achieved such a thing.”

“So
its Dagon or Beelzebub then.” Petraeus wanted to get the conversation back on
track. “What does that mean for General Dorokhov?”

“It
will not be Dagon. Many of his legions are Krakens, sea creatures. It will be
Beelzebub. They do not call him Lord of the Flies for nothing. His army has 27
legions of Harpies. The rest will just be infantry.”

“180,000
harpies. I hope you have plenty of triple-A Grazhdanin Ivan.”

“One
Tungaska or Shilka for every three vehicles. And many brigades of surface to
air missiles. Some old but they still work. All radar-guided. And all the BMPs
have shoulder-fired missiles on board. Sometimes it is good to have great
warehouses. We are dug in and waiting. Abigor, this Great Celestial War, what
happened?”

Abigor
shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Two or three million of your years. We had
found this planet and on opening a gate back to our home a mistake was made and
we opened a gate to here. A place like Heaven but unoccupied except for unimportant
creatures. We took it for our own. Then, Satan wanted it for his kingdom,
separate from Yahweh’s Heaven. Yahweh wanted both. Satan rebelled and about a
third of us joined him. The war went on for a long time but Satan won, Hell
became his kingdom and Yahweh kept Heaven.”

“That’s
not the way our stories told it.” Petraeus was grimly amused.

“They
were written by Yahweh’s people weren’t they?” Abigor grinned. He’d been
watching The History Channel on television.

Outer
Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell  What amazed Aeanas the most about his time in
Hell was the fact that he remained sane. He knew his name. Remembered his
family. His wife, his two sons. Remembered dying. Knew that he had been in Hell
for a long time(though the exact length of time remained elusive). And his
torment never drove him insane.

Perhaps
that was the most insidious aspect of Hell: they protected your mind from
shattering. From becoming a shell with no feeling, no thought, no mind. After
all, what use was there to torturing the mindless husk? The joy in the demon's
faces came when they saw his terror, his fear, Aeanas could see this. If he had
no mind, he might scream, but would he really feel the pain?

So,
Aeanas feared them every time they came exactly as much as he had when they
first set themselves upon him. Throughout the ages of screaming agony in the
river there had been no emotion associated with his sufferings. How did it feel
to have his skin seared from his body, his eyes boiled in their sockets, his
genitals burned away? He could never grasp these; such memories danced just out
of reach.

That
was the rub. If he could remember what it felt, perhaps he wouldn't fear the
demons so much. But in the heat of the moment, any kind of mental preparation
he had made vanished into a cloud of palpating terror and pain. He always
begged not to be thrown back into the river, a simpering weakling, utterly
without shame or pity. He screamed the same pathetic, high-pitched scream that
he let out every time his body hit the flaming lava, the kind of blameless,
ringing screech that only mortal injury and mortal fear can evoke.

Except
it wasn't mortal in this place; each time he escaped from the river, Aeanas was
made whole again. Somehow. He really didn't have time to think about it, because
the respites between tortures seemed fleeting and ephemeral at best. Sometimes
he saw others tormented as he, but that really didn't matter.

He
was dead.

This
was Hell.

And
this was how he was going to spend eternity. Each soul-rending abuse seared him
but did not destroy him. The memories were not his to cherish. He would never
know the wondrous oblivion of insanity. He was instead doomed to repeat every
torment as though it was his first, though he knew this wasn't the case.

So,
as Aeanas sprawled on the bank, writhing from his burns but never dying, he was
in the full grip of panic. His eyesight was only coming back and he would have
screamed if he could, if his lungs had not been seared to uselessness. Breathed
if he could. Instead, the hard earth of Hell smashed into Aeanas' flailing
form. He nevertheless attempted to scramble away. From what, he couldn't say,
because he couldn't see more than a few feet. And he couldn't get very far,
because he still couldn't breathe. Then, at once, the choking fume and heat
were gone. Reflexively, he gulped in air. The sulfur-laden fumes did nothing
good for his lungs, but breath was breath. Based on his fuzzy past, he expected
perhaps a barrel of molten rock to be poured over him it didn’t happen. He
opened his eyes, and he saw a hand. But this hand wasn't scaled. It had no
claws. It was a human hand, as his own. Following it up, he saw its owner: a
man, naked, stood before him. In his far hand was a spear--no, a trident, but
beyond that, the visage of Hell faded to a blurry, ruddy nihility.

Aeanas
reeled and tried to scrabble away. What new torment was this? But the figure
snatched Aeanas and hauled him to his feet.

"It's
alright!" he said in a language that wasn't Aeanas'. But yet, he
understood it. How could that be? "What's your name, soldier?"