All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [195]
Such trivial pleasures would slow him . . . still, Louis paused to admire the black velvet sheen of the Droogan-dor’s skin.
He started again—then halted as he saw how seriously he had miscalculated.
About him, growling and crouching, were a dozen Droogan-dors—each the size of a house, each growing rows and rows of dagger teeth.
“Now boys.” He held up both hands. “Can’t we all be friends?”
The monstrosities all took a step back, simultaneously shaking their heads to clear the confusion from the hell-blaspheme oath. Friends was not a word uttered without some effort in the depths.
Which is when Louis attacked them.
He didn’t transform . . . not entirely. That would’ve garnered him too much attention. But just a partial shift, claw and fang and wing of bat—to rip and rend and slash.
How could he pass up such fun?
He paused, panting, and realized there was nothing left to fight . . . only shreds and quivering pieces that lay about him.
And curiously, a single cut ran down along his forearm. A trickle of black blood congealed there.
Careless of him.
Or had Mephistopheles’ minions gathered power enough to actually hurt an Infernal Lord?
Indeed. He snugged his cloak tighter and trotted. Time was far shorter than he had realized.
Miles ahead, he spied the tallest tower of the Sealiah’s castles, burning bright with beacons and the swoop and swirl of armored bat defenders flying about.
Skirmishes raged upon the plains and hills and what was left of the jungles, but Louis noted a procession of knights had the right idea . . . as they steadily limped down the road back to the castle, dragging those too injured to walk on their own.
A retreat? So early? It seemed unlikely, yet the evidence was before his eyes.
The damned of Hell mended bone and flesh after a long painful process. Wounded typically were not removed from battlefield. It was a measure that smacked of desperation—not mercy—for there was only one reason to bother: to deny Mephistopheles converting even the weakest of her warriors to his cause.
It also presented Louis with an interesting problem. He slowed his pace and hid in the ditch. Sneaking past so many numbers would take time.
He glanced about, seeking opportunity.
And he found it: a battle had taken place here recently. Among broken lances and smoldering opium stalks, one knight lay in three pieces, each part struggling to find the other and its missing head.
Louis removed the warrior’s thorned mail. “Might I borrow this?” He then kicked the knight’s head across the road into the far ditch. “I thank you, brave sir.”
He donned the armor—a tad loose for his frame—and then shuffled forward along the road, joining the ranks of despondent soldiers marching toward their doom.
Through his spiked and slotted visor, Louis watched as the twelve towers of Sealiah’s fortress loomed larger. Atop each flickered a tongue of flame to keep darkness at bay. This fire was ghostly blue . . . marsh gas piped in from the surrounding flooded lands. In their murky waters, tangles of razor vine squirmed and thrashed and waited for something to wander into their hungry embraces.
More soldiers joined their ranks—hundred and hundreds, but not the numbers that he knew Sealiah had at her disposal.
How badly had Mephistopheles beaten her?
This concerned Louis, not because he felt any pity for his most beautiful adversary, but because it would not give him the chance to take advantage of her first.
Or perhaps there was more to this? Certainly Louis had no monopoly on deception (even if he was the best at it).
He and the others marched along drawbridges that spanned the wide black waters of the Laudanum River. Along the banks, barrels of oil sat half-buried, awaiting the torch to transform them into floating sheets of fire—unassailable proof against the dark . . . for a time.
Louis then stood before the base of the towering mesa that held Doze Torres. The wisteria-covered earthen ramps that had once zigzagged along the cliff face had been torn away, leaving only sheer rock.
He looked straight