Vorghammul the Destroyer was not pleased.

  He sat in Hell's Administrative Processing Center, Subsection 47W, surrounded by the particular breed of torment reserved for warriors forced to navigate bureaucracy and Karens that were convinced that their interpretation of their HOA's bylaws was the only correct one.

  The waiting room featured stone benches seemingly designed to maximize discomfort, and the walls were adorned with aged notices on proper form submission procedures for everything other than what he needed. He'd been sent to the back of the line once for threatening to tear the head off a bob-cut Karen who felt entitled to cut in front of him. She had now been in front of him in line for the last six hours, reminding him every minute of it that this was all his fault.

  "Next!" A bored voice called from behind a metal grating.

  Vorghammul shouldered past the Karen and three lesser demons and approached the window. Behind it sat a clerk—some variety of sallow-skinned bureaucrat demon with dead eyes and fingers stained with ink. A nameplate read "Clerk 666-7."

  "I need authorization to cross a toll bridge," Vorghammul growled.

  The clerk didn't look up from his ledger. "Toll dispute form 7743-TB-3. Did you bring it?"

  Vorghammul slapped the crumpled form onto the counter. He tried to smooth it out. It didn't work.

  Clerk 666-7 picked it up with two fingers, as if it were diseased. "This form is damaged."

  "It's fine."

  "Section 12 is illegible. You'll need to resubmit with a clean copy."

  Vorghammul's fist clenched—deep breath. Don't kill the clerk. Don't kill the clerk. Lord Azgoranthe would hear about it, and then there'd be more paperwork. "Where do I get a clean copy?"

  "Forms office. Third floor. Next!"

  The war demon climbed three flights of stairs to another waiting room, pausing only to rip the arm off an imp who tried to fly past him. He took a number, waited forty-five minutes, got his form, and climbed back down the stairs. The arm was gone, but the bloodstain remained. He wished he'd had the foresight to keep it as a snack.

  He strode directly to the front of the line and dared the security guard to challenge him on it. The guard decided it was break time, and the demon he cut in front of looked at the blood in his claws and decided that he could wait another few minutes.

  Clerk 666-7 had been replaced by Clerk 420-69, who examined the fresh form with the same lack of enthusiasm.

  "Administrator claim listed here..." The clerk tapped a section. "Says 'Captain Chuck.' Need full infernal designation."

  "I don't know his full designation."

  "Then you'll need to file a designation inquiry with the Office of Direct Appointments. Form 9982-A4. Processing time is three to five business days."

  Vorghammul leaned forward until his face nearly touched the grating. "Listen very carefully. I have twenty-six demons waiting to cross a bridge. The administrator at that bridge is charging an illegal toll. I need authorization to either pay the toll or bypass it. Today."

  Clerk 420-69 finally looked up, meeting Vorghammul's eyes with the dead-eyed stare of someone who'd processed ten thousand forms that day and would process thousands more before he finally died of boredom. "Sir, without proper designation of the administrator in question, I cannot verify whether the toll is legal or illegal. Without that verification, I cannot issue authorization for payment or bypass. You'll need to—"

  "How much is the toll?"

  "According to your own disputed toll notification... one thousand gold per demon."

  Vorghammul did the math again, hoping somehow it had changed. It hadn't. "That's twenty-six thousand gold."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't have twenty-six thousand gold."

  "Then you'll need to file for a toll reduction hearing. Form Q8371-D. Six to eight weeks processing time."

  Six to eight weeks. He had orders to claim Thornwell yesterday, not months from now. His chance to prove himself, to rise from piss-boy to something more in Lord Azgoranthe's eyes, was slipping away while he drowned in forms.

  "There has to be another way."

  Clerk 420-69 sighed and consulted a massive book on his desk, flipping through pages with practiced efficiency. "Well..." He paused. "The territory in question. You said it was claimed under administrator status?"

  "Yes."

  "Administrator status only applies to territories with tax delinquency exceeding 199 years. Has the territory submitted to the claimant? No? Such territories are classified as... Ah, here it is. 'Territory in rebellious status, pending formal administrative reclamation.'"

  Something shifted behind Vorghammul's eyes. "What does that mean?"

  "It means the territory has been claimed but hasn't recognized Hell's authority." The clerk's finger traced down the page. “Under Infernal Conquest Protocol, Section 1—oh, section one. It must be important then. Where was I… Ah yes. Any ranked demon may attempt to subjugate rebellious territory through military action, provided proper conquest declaration forms are filed and approved. Refer to Infernal Conquest Protocol, volume 33, for complete details."

  Vorghammul straightened. "Conquest declaration forms?"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Yes, sir. Form C-7-426-A3. Requires statement of intent, force composition, timeline, strategic objectives, etc., and anticipated budget to be attached as an addendum. Once approved, you have legal authorization to subjugate the territory by force. The toll only applies to peaceful crossing—it doesn't prevent legitimate military operations."

  Finally. Finally, something that made sense. Something he could work with.

  "Give me the form."

  Clerk 420-69 produced it from a drawer. Even in Hell, there were occasionally miracles. "You'll need signatures from your commanding officer and—"

  "I'll handle it. How long for approval?"

  "Standard processing is two to three days, but conquest declarations get priority review. You could have authorization by tomorrow morning if you file before the end of business today."

  Vorghammul snatched the form. "I'll have it back within the hour."

  "We close in twelve minutes. He held up a small clock that sat at his station and pointed at its hands."

  Vorghammul tried to bore holes through the clerk with his eyes.

  The clerk's eyes flicked away to the clock as the minute hand clicked forward. "Eleven, now."

  He very slowly reached through the document hole in the grating that separated him from Clerk 420-69 and reached one clawed finger out to the clock. He very carefully wound the minute hand back an hour, leaving a streak of blood where his claw's tip touched the yellowed, once white backing. Task complete, he slowly withdrew his hand from the other side of the grating.

  "I believe you misread your clock, Clerk 420-69. Perhaps you should look at it again."

  The clerk swallowed as he looked at the clock and then back at Vorghammul. He would definitely file a grievance with the union about this, but he had to survive long enough to do so. "Yes, sir. You are correct. You have one hour and eleven minutes. Ten, now."

  * * *

  I threw the parchment onto the kitchen table in front of Mum, where it curled itself back up. "Is this legitimate or is this bullgrix?"

  Mum picked it up and scanned it for the fourth time, hoping to find a flaw in what he was reading. "My Lord, it is absolutely correct in its form and format." He held it out to Pemberton, who waved it off. "This is official notice from Vorghammul the Destroyer that he intends to take this territory from you by force of arms, as it is in a state of rebellion and defies your demonic duty to subjugate it."

  I wished I had some of Arthur's whiskey, but instead sipped my cup of rusty water. I was actually starting to like the flavor. "What are our options? Pemberton?"

  The imp took off his glasses and carefully put them on the table. He steepled his hands as he leaned forward on his elbows and rested his chin upon them. "We have three days to challenge the declaration. The best outcome would be securing council approval of your protectorship; then we simply need to file the papers before he crosses the bridge, and we're good. The second option is to fight. You either win or lose on the battlefield and live with the results. Or die with them."

  "Can't you pull a bureaucratic miracle from behind your ear and buy us more time?"

  "No. The process is defined and unequivocal. Were we to submit forged documents, your claim would be automatically invalidated, and we'd be in an even worse position, as the village would simply revert to being unclaimed and open to any demon attacking it at will—there's no paperwork needed to take unclaimed territory from humans. Forces allied to His Darkness would try to take it and give it to him to gain his favor; forces opposed would try to take it to stick their finger in his eye in a way he couldn't retaliate against. We don't want either."

  I shook my head. "If we fight, it's going to be bad. What's the status of that order we discussed, Pemberton? Even with armor for the ladies I don't like our odds in a fight. We could win, but someone will definitely get hurt, possibly killed."

  "Ordered, sir, but I agree with your assessment. Either Krag or Gashi is our most effective fighter, followed by you, Calista, and then Elanthe." He turned to the elf girl. "No offense, Elanthe. If heart dictated battlefield results, you'd be one to be feared, but alas, it does not."

  "It's okay, Pemberton. The other night was the first real fight I've ever been in. I'm aware of my limitations. I know that I'm no match for Calista physically." She dropped her gaze to something on the floor beside her.

  Pemberton looked at me for a moment, pointedly, before offering, "That's okay, my dear, we realize that you're more than just a pretty face." His eyes never left mine as he said it and I realized that I'd brakked up. I should have been the one to give her encouragement, not him. I hated that everybody knew my job better than I did.

  "And Elanthe, the work you and Noc— Buttercup have been doing at night is really paying dividends. The villagers are coming around to our position, but I don't think we'll get the council on board through dreams alone. At least we've got public support, and that's important."

  She didn't look up, but she blushed slightly, which I took as a good sign. I looked back at Pemberton, who rewarded me with the tiniest of nods. I missed slapping people around. It was so much easier.

  "Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we can get the council to not only meet again, but also vote our way?" I scanned the three in front of me without much hope. This time, nobody met my eye.

  Mum chimed in. "If only you had a succubus, you could have her subvert one of the recalcitrant councilors and get him to vote your way." The three sets of eyes staring at him caught him off guard for a moment. "Uh, what I meant to say is, if you had a succubus who seduced instead of exercised, you'd be… Nevermind."

  "So that's where we stand then. Unless something drops out of the sky to shift the balance of the council, we go to war in three days. We’ve got a couple of aces up our sleeves with Krag and Gashi, so we should come out okay."

  * * *

  "What do you mean Gashi won't be able to fight with us? You got him under contract, didn't you?"

  Mum held his hands up, trying to calm me down. "Sir. Sir. Yes, Sir. The contract is executed. But you smited him, Sir. Smote him? Whatever, you caved in his skull. He's seriously hurt, and it's going to take time for his skull fracture to regenerate itself."

  I gripped the back of the chair until my knuckles were white. "Gashi is easily worth ten demons, maybe even twenty, and he's out of the fight? Is that seriously what you're telling me? With him, Krag, and me fighting, I could have beaten this thing, even with my cracked rib."

  "Yes, Sir. Out until further notice, Sir. Nothing to do about it."

  "Light damn him."

  "Already part of being undead, Sir."

  I could have thrown my chair at the contract devil, but he was just the messenger. I was the moron who had taken my best piece off the board. Me. Because I didn't know my own strength. I took a deep breath.

  "How long is he out?"

  "A few weeks. Maybe a month. You did literally crack his skull."

  "He can't heal here?"

  "No. The closer he is to a source of negative energy, the faster he'll recover. Unfortunately, there is no darkspring in the root cellar." Mum perked up. "I could have one installed. I know a guy—”

  "Mum, please. If we survive the week, we'll talk about it." I rubbed my eyes and took another deep breath. "Is he being well taken care of at least? I don't want him down any longer than necessary."

  The contract devil looked away. "Ah, yes."

  "Mum?"

  "He is being treated quite well."

  "Mum."

  "You see, Sir, you've made a celebrity out of him. He was smitten by a paladin of the Great Enemy and not only survived to tell the tale, but earned himself a spot serving His Royal Darkness's favorite champion. There are few enough survivors of smites, but to be noticed by a campion of Hell as well? When I spoke with him to get the contract signed, he was in a whirlpool of dark energy with two succubi rubbing ointment on his bon—errrr, his skull. He, ah… He asked me to thank you for all you've done for him."

  "Mum."

  "Sir?"

  "Get out."