Chapter 1

Pandemonium, Grim Horde Capital (Formerly Rome, Italy)

Saturday, March 19, 2050

The morning of my trial for treason was marked by an auspicious omen in the culture of the Grim Horde, an unexpected eclipse of the sun. Most of my devil brethren and the chattel races who served us were quite comfortable seeing in low light, and there was a primitive association of the sun with the Enemy. We saw the sun as His gift to His beloved children, and its lack being a sign of our despoiling His creation. I had never bought into that; how much could He possibly love humanity, since He and His forces had let us invade the Earth without any opposition?

Like most superstitions, it had a fairly prosaic origin. We had won a major battle in Tunisia during such an unexpected eclipse in 2038, so we had forever after seen them as lucky. This meant that enterprising devils trying to “prove” their good fortune were forever casting light bending spells to create false eclipses and then rushing to put out their interpretations first. It was to the point where they were a near constant sight in the capitol. Nobody dared question these forgeries, though. Any magically inclined demon who could blot out the sun would be just as liable to kill you where you stood with a single spell. It was just best to play along.

That was life in the Grim Horde, and that was why I wasn’t the least bit concerned about the trial. I was guilty, naturally. Thankfully, that didn’t factor into it at all. Like with the eclipses, it wasn’t the truth of the thing, for truth and justice are the Enemy’s delusions. What mattered were appearances, and they couldn’t let a Grand General be slighted without some public slap on the wrist. That was why I was clad in irons at the center of what had once been a sports arena on the outskirts of Pandemonium.

I faced a tribunal made up of the cream of the Grim Horde’s Judiciary. Judge Martel the Wise was there, as was the Dark Lord’s third wife, Judith, who I’m assured was as skilled at law as she was beautiful. To my mind, that’s a crushing insult, but then, I've never seen the allure of goblins.

Then again, a lesser lout didn’t have my father, the Dark Lord’s Vizier, completing the tribunal. He glowered at me from the tribunal’s bench with the others. He was less angry than disappointed. I could see it in his eyes. I’ve always suspected my father of a softness unbecoming of an official in the Dark Lord’s cabinet. It would explain my mixed parentage. It was also why I was sure I’d be a free man soon enough. There are many devils who would have tossed their child to the wolves for some political advantage and gone off to sire another, but not the Grand Vizier.

Still, if it was a show trial, it was a convincing one. My hands were clad in irons wreathed in magic suppressing runes and my mouth covered by a mask that would deliver a nasty electric shock if I so much as sneezed with magical intent. It all seemed like overkill, but then, I was the man who'd brought down Big Ben with a Fireball.

I shivered in the large, unheated space. They had taken an old, covered sports arena and put it to various uses. I could still see the blood stains in the dirt from the previous night’s “festivities,” probably pitting the poor descendants of zoo animals against each other for the crowds’ amusement. Legal proceedings happened to be less popular, since there was more talking and less fighting. It was why the bleachers were mostly empty.

I was almost insulted by how few onlookers were in the stands. Naturally, the offended parties were there, Girdan the Fair and his daughter, Fera. The cheeky girl blew me a kiss, which earned me a death glare from her father, as though I'd made her do it. Besides that, it was a bunch of nobodies: a kobold picking her nose, a pair of napping, rag-clad goblins and an orc taking notes.

"Ingrates,” I groused. “I bring them conquest and booty, and this is how they repay me? Can’t even turn out some peasants to make a more respectable audience?”

My defender, Belialia, barked a harsh laugh. "You think too highly of yourself, Captain Malthus. You’re unknown outside of military circles.”

I studied Belialia, since she was the best scenery on offer. She had the lustrous red skin typical of a devil, which contrasted delightfully with her stark white hair. She had it tied up in a tight, businesslike bun that left me with an uninterrupted view of gazelle-like horns the same color as her skin. Her tight blouse and pencil skirt that sparked my imagination. Completing the ensemble were her square glasses, which were an amusing affectation, seeing as I’ve never met a devil with real vision troubles. We had aped the styles of the humans we had conquered, and Belialia had obviously chosen her look to emphasize her seriousness.

“Well, I suppose I ought to look on the bright side. We wouldn’t have met without this unpleasantness. We can tell our children of this fortuitous meeting.”

Belialia paused from shuffling her papers to shoot me a contemptuous glare. “Sorry, Captain Malthus, but I prefer men to boys. And maybe a bit more color.”

I ignored the slight at my pale, white skin, an inheritance from Mother. There weren’t many of us half breeds, and I’d always had to deal with a certain amount of disdain. Ah well. It made the eventual conquest more fun.

“You wound me, madam. You think me a boy? Oh, now I simply must show you the error of your ways. Once we are done here, I know this lovely hotel that charges by the hour. They keep it shockingly clean, considering what goes on there. I’ll show you a fantastic time.”

She blushed ever so slightly. When you grow up in a society of red skin the shade of a fire truck, you quickly start to learn how to spot the subtle variations. “I’d have thought you’d have something else on your mind other than romance, like surviving the day.”

I detected a little hesitance in her voice. You do occasionally meet a devil with a little modesty, which just made her all the more intriguing. I leaned forward, cursing that my attempt at a roguish grin was blocked by the mask. The manacles cutting into my wrist forced me back to reality. “How often does anybody brought before these show trials get off?"

She shrugged. "Not often. Especially not when they bring in the full tribunal. You’re being made an example. However, you can be an example cleaning the mammoth stables for a year, or swinging from the gallows. I can have you scrubbing filth instead of being filth, if you can stay focused and keep a civil tongue in your head. Just think of my rent. I’m only paid if I win."

She needn’t have worried. The poor dear had no idea that things had been decided well in advance. I suppose the actor in the kabuki theater is more convincing if they don’t know it’s a show. Ah well. I decided I may as well play along. “Cleaning the mammoth stables? If that’s the best you can get me, I might prefer a swift death instead, thank you very much. Given the circumstances, could you be so cruel as to deny me one last pleasure before I’m sent back to Our Father Below?"

“Yes, yes I could,” she said, eyes fixed dead ahead. “I come from a long line of tormentors.”

The sound of Martel's gavel cut our conversation short. All eyes turned to the imposing sight of the orc judge, his flat, apelike face and green skin in marked contrast to his black robes, powdered wig and comically undersized horn-rimmed glasses. Unlike Belialia’s spectacles, those probably were prescription. Orcs have rather poor eyesight.

It surprised me that he seemed to be leading the trial. I’d have thought Father or Judith would have outranked him. In the hierarchy of the Grim Horde's subjects, devils sat on top, and how the lesser races sorted themselves out was as confusing to me as it was irrelevant. All I needed to know was I was their superior, even if I needed to kowtow to the pureblood devils. I suspected it was because Father and Judith had other duties to perform, while Martel was the specialist. So, they let him carry on the boring formalities.

Martel's bass voice boomed through the chambers. "Order in this court! The case of Captain Malthus versus Grand General Girdan shall now be heard. Grand General Girdan, will you please read your accusations?"

Say what you will about Girdan the Fair, the devil knew how to make an entrance. He’d been with his daughter high in the stands, but with a gesture and a burst of magical energy, he formed an icy slide down to the arena floor. Ice was his magical affinity, and he shaped it like a true master. With ease born from a lifetime of practice, he slid down and came to a graceful stop. It was always a shock to see the agility of the towering behemoth, especially in his restrictive blue and white dress uniform. His skin was a paler red than Belialia, and he was blessed with blonde tresses that attracted female attention like you wouldn’t believe. Sufficed to say, they were why he was known as the Fair. He certainly had no reputation for mercy or justice, especially among those he conquered.

Without missing a beat, he snapped his fingers, causing the water vapor he’d frozen moments before to vanish in a cloud of steam. I could feel the wave of heat from where I sat, and Belialia flinched. “Thank you, your honors. It is a pleasure to see you all, as always. I wish we could meet under better circumstances, but this repugnant little worm,” he said, pointing right at me with his sausage-like finger, “has violated the sacred trust that a leader must have in his subordinates, and for that, he must be punished!”

"Sacred," I said in an exaggerated stage whisper. "Should have probably chosen a different word there." That earned me an elbow from Belialia.

Ignoring me, Girdan continued. "I have had the displeasure of knowing this boy since he was first entrusted to me at the tender age of thirteen. I have failed you, Vizier Malthus,” he said, looking my father straight in the eye. We devils took the name of the parent of our same gender. For example, Girdan’s daughter, Fera, was named for her mother.

(It’s a system that I’m sure they’ve revised after a few generations, but I haven’t exactly checked in with the home office to see how they do it now.)

“I have always tried to raise him in the manner you would have chosen,” Girdan continued. “I have striven to instill in him the dignity and grace of an officer of our beloved Dark Lord.” He strategically left out all of the boozing and whoring he’d introduced me to, but then, Girdan only cared about being proper when his superiors were watching. “I must admit, he served well in England. However, as soon as we came home in triumph, how does he repay me?” He again leveled an accusatory finger at me. “With betrayal! He broke into my house late at night to seduce my daughter.” He was an old hypocrite. Like most of his stripe, he was fine romancing other men’s daughters, but was damned controlling of his own. “He stole the good wine I have held onto since the Spanish campaign against the rebellious Society of the Four Fingers. Wine I had promised myself I wouldn’t touch until we had sacked England. Worse still, that presumptuous bastard didn’t even have the decency to save me any!”

“It was a terrible vintage. You should thank me!” I got yet another elbow to my increasingly sore ribs.

Girdan gave no sign he’d heard me. “When I found him with my dear, sweet, bamboozled Fera, I of course captured him. I have tried to keep her away from the sordid life I have had to lead, and then Malthus brought it into my house, like a thief in the night!”

“Oh, it was terrible, Daddy,” called Fera from above.

I was about to speak up about Fera’s obvious experience in the carnal arts when Belialia elbowed me again. I managed to hold my tongue, but just barely.

“Furthermore, when he was arrested, I found this on his person!” Girdan held up an ugly wooden trinket emblazoned with the character ‘guh,’ the High Demonic equivalent of the English ‘g.’ “This was given to me by the Dark Lord himself as a personal gift! It has been my prized possession ever since, and I even took the symbol as my family crest. And Malthus stole it! His actions are simply beyond the pale!”

Speaking of pale, my father was as white as a ghost, his red devil’s skin reduced to a light pink. I hadn't exactly had the chance to explain myself to him, and it was the first time he was hearing the full details of what was simultaneously one of my best and worst memories. Like I said, he was a soft man, considering his rank in the Cabinet. Even from that distance, I could see his disappointment double and redouble.

Frankly, I was a little disappointed in myself for risking so much for so little gain. Our Father Below hang my whims! When Belialia had interviewed me before the trial, the only accounting I could give of my actions was that they made sense at the time. The wooden carving had no hold over me during the trial, but when I saw it in Girdan’s bedchambers, stealing it had seemed like the most important thing I could do. The same with the wine, and the same with Fera. Especially Fera. Dear, sweet, Fera…

Seeing the lascivious look on my face, Belialia gave me a much harder elbow to shock me out of it.

I chortled. “You keep that up and I might start liking it.”

She hissed at me, “Do you mind? This is serious!”

I tried to summon as much dignity as I could in my shackled state. “I’m quite serious about our future together, Belialia, even if it’s brief.”

She went back to ignoring me, but I could see her redden ever so slightly at my attentions. I felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

Girdan raised his arm in a fine orator’s pose as he came to the climax. "Members of this tribunal, I seek the death penalty for this brute, as a reminder that even in Pandemonium, there are some things that are simply not done!"

Martel nodded to him. "Thank you, Grand General Girdan. How does the defense respond?"

Belialia rose to her feet and smoothed out her skirt. She cleared her throat and began, "It is the defense's opinion that..."

Judith cut her off, a quizzical expression creasing her grey face. "I think I know you, public defender. You were at the trial of The City of Despairopolis versus Flycatcher the Kobold, were you not?"

Belialia flinched. "Yes, your honor."

"This one is a liar who will waste the court's time," said Judith.

“Well, yes,” said Martel. “We know he's guilty. It's her job to massage the facts and try to convince us of falsehoods. There are appearances to be kept up."

“I have an appointment this afternoon. We don't have time for lies. Bailiff!" Judith snapped her fingers. "Bring out the Band of Truth."

I heard Belialia curse as a corpulent orc came over and clapped a bronze band onto her right wrist. It was emblazoned with runes that began to glow as soon as the locking mechanism was set.

Father looked displeased, but he kept his voice level. "Let us have no more interruptions. Defender, what does the client have to say for himself?"

Belialia took a drink of water, and I could tell she was starting to panic. "Your honors, the allegations against Captain Malthus are completely..." She was cut off as electricity coursed up her arm, eliciting a surprised yelp.

"Are you quite alright, darling?"

She glared at me as her eyes teared up from the pain. "Better than you'll be, at this rate. Now let me do my job as best as I'm able." She straightened up again. Much faster, as though she was trying to outrun the spell, she said, "That is to say, everything Grand General Girdan said is blatantly..." She stifled her cry this time as another arc of electricity split the air with a loud pop. She dropped to her knees, visibly smoking. The bailiff came over to check on her, but she refused his proffered hand.

With a dignity I couldn't help but admire, she rose to her feet. "The defense rests." She made her way back to the seat next to me.

"The defense rests? What am I paying you for?"

Here eyes were bloodshot and still brimming with tears. "Paying me? I'm a public defender, you cheap idiot!"

"I'm sure I paid taxes at some point,” I said with a shrug. “Why did you just fold?"

She sighed. "I know you did it, and as long as I have this thing on me, I can't say otherwise. Sorry. You're done. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Try to be polite, if you can."

I couldn’t doubt the advice, since she was still wearing the band. I wanted to say something cutting, but I decided not to burn any bridges with the lovely defender.

Martel banged his gavel again. "Order!" My ears rang as his voice echoed through the space. I was sure his lung capacity was the only reason he was promoted to the court. "If the defense has nothing to say to counter the prosecution's claims, I suppose the defendant must be utterly guilty. Before we pass a richly deserved death sentence for betraying the trust of your commander, Captain Malthus, do you have anything to say?"

“Make it good,” my lawyer hissed.

Belialia had a point. Even if the outcome was never in doubt, I shouldn’t embarrass the honorable judges, or make things any harder on Father. I had to say something that showed the true depth of my contrition. I had to convince them I was a good fellow after all, and definitely didn't need to have my head put on a pike as an example to others.

I made the mistake of making eye contact with Girdan as I weighed my words. The smug grin that split his face ruined the brownnosing speech I’d been planning. "I think I’ll save my breath. The sooner this is all over with, the better. I have plans.” I cast the horrified Belialia a lascivious wink.

Martel didn't miss a beat and hit his gavel again. "Death it is then. A slow one. Bailiff?"

The corpulent orc slowly waddled over. I stood firm, knowing that any moment, Father would end the who charade and declare I was free. He was grimacing at me now, but I knew he’d come through for me. The damned old fool was too squeamish to let anything happen to me.

Any moment.

Any moment.

My first doubts in Father’s mercy entered my mind as they finished strapping me into the rack in a nearby dungeon. Alas, it was too late by then.