“It was a
good plan.” Manoach held out his hand and the oily black serpent at
his feet grew and fattened into a caricature of a little boy. Harold
could see Lentil in the features, and the mythical grandson, Leonard.
He'd been right to reject them both. Even in his dreams his will was
stronger than Manoach's.
“But
doomed to failure.” Harold rose slowly to his feet. How long had he
lain of the cold floor? Everything ached. “Admit it, Manoach.
You've lost. My will was stronger than yours.”
“Lost?
Lost, he says.” He laughed aloud. Even the plastic face of the
demon-boy giggled, though the demons holding Gillian didn't utter a
sound. “I haven't lost, Mr Waterman. True, I've failed to engage
your services as a host to one of my people but I've far from lost.
Even now my army grows, day by day, until such time that I can march
on Hell itself.”
It was
Harold's turn to laugh. “You mean the golems? We disabled them.
Every one of them lies soulless and vacant, waiting to be melted down
and turned into something useful.”
Manoach made
a dismissive gesture. “Well done. That is a setback, true, but
nothing that can't be replicated. It's merely a matter of gathering
more souls.”
“That
might be difficult if you've been banished from this plane.”
“Banished?
I don't think that's possible.” He held up a hand as Harold began
to respond. “Oh, I know you have a demon of your own but rest
assured, Jasfoup is no match for my people. The blood you carry might
be enough to ward them off but he's so far down the hierarchical
ladder he couldn't see our feet with binoculars. A pity. He could
have served us as a trusty lieutenant.”
No comments:
Post a Comment