The Infernals (25 page)

Samuel twisted beneath the Watcher’s feet, gazing out at the gathering forces with a mix of terror and amazement. The Watcher regarded him closely, its eight black eyes like dark planets set against the red sky of its skin. Even though the winged demon was more awful than any of the creatures assembled below, Samuel still found the courage to stare back at it in defiance.

“What are you waiting for?” said Samuel. “Do whatever you’re planning, and get it over with.”

He heard a voice speak in his head, and although the Watcher’s insectlike jaws did not move, Samuel knew that he was hearing the demon’s voice.

We wait.

“Wait for whom?” Even in this time of great peril, Samuel Johnson’s grammar remained intact.

For Mrs. Abernathy.

Samuel felt much of the courage he had mustered leach away. His body deflated, and all his strength threatened to leave him. He had been foolish to think he could escape her wrath, foolish to think Nurd could save him. He had been doomed ever since that first evening when he had watched as Mrs. Abernathy and her loathsome companions had emerged from their world into his through a hole in an otherwise ordinary basement.

All of this, for you,
said the Watcher, with what seemed like wonder in its voice.
All of this, because of a boy.

“I didn’t start it,” said Samuel. “I didn’t make Mrs. Abernathy kill anyone. I didn’t ask for her to invade the Earth. I just wanted to go trick-or-treating.”

But now look. Armies are mustering. Old loyalties have fallen apart, and new loyalties have been forged. Old enmities are forgotten, and new enmities are formed. And all the time, my master weeps. The bells must peal. There is no other choice.

“Your master?” said Samuel, picking up on something in the demon’s tone that might almost have been love, but love so twisted and misguided that it was almost unrecognizable as itself. “But don’t you work for Mrs. Abernathy? And what bells are you talking about?”

The Watcher did not reply, and Samuel, remembering his brief glimpse of the reality of the Great Malevolence, knew that the demon’s loyalties were conflicted.

“So you work for the Devil,
and
for Mrs. Abernathy?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

“You should probably make your mind up.”

Probably.

“I wondered what all that wailing was about,” said Samuel. “You’re telling me that it’s the Great Malevolence, crying?”

Yes.

“Why?”

Because, after all this time, he came close to escaping his prison. After all this time, he had hope, and then the hope was gone, and he hates himself for giving in to hope. He, who exists only to kill the hopes of others, could not destroy the hope within himself. He is lost to his madness, and so he weeps.

“Can’t say I’m sorry,” said Samuel, and thought to himself, the big crybaby. The Watcher’s head tilted slightly, and Samuel was afraid the demon might have picked up on what he was thinking, but if it did, it gave no further sign.

“So why did those other demons attack us in the clouds?”

They are loyal to Duke Abigor. He does not want Mrs. Abernathy to have you.

“Why not?”

Because she is going to hand you over to the Great Malevolence, and thus restore him to sanity, and herself to his favor, and he will forgive her for the failure of the invasion, and he will revenge himself upon you instead. But if Duke Abigor can prevent that, he will take Mrs. Abernathy’s place. He will take—

The Watcher broke off, unwilling to express its worst fear.

“Would Duke Abigor send me home, if he had me?” said Samuel hopefully.

No. Duke Abigor would keep you in utter darkness, and there you would stay forever, for Death has no dominion here.

“Oh,” said Samuel.

Yes, “Oh.”

“And what about you? What do you want?”

I want my master to stop weeping. That is why I will let Mrs. Abernathy hand you over to him.

And Samuel’s last hopes began to fade.

D
UKE
A
BIGOR SLAMMED A
mailed fist into the table of bones, which shattered under the impact, causing a number of the skulls to complain loudly about vandalism, and demons these days having no respect for antiques, and bones not growing on trees, and suchlike. Abigor lifted one of the dislodged skulls, which continued to chatter until it seemed to realize that its fortunes had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, something that, until recently, had seemed virtually impossible, given that it was a skull stuck in a table without much hope of advancement.

“My mistake,” said the skull. “Don’t worry about the damage.”

Abigor increased his grip, giving the skull just enough time to say, “Gently, now—” before it was crushed to dust.

Abigor was dressed in his finest battle armor, its surface decorated with images of serpents that slithered over the metal and were, when required, capable of rising up and striking at an enemy. His bloodred cloak billowed angrily behind him, responding to the changes in its wearer’s temperament.

“Four legions!” shouted Duke Abigor. “We lost four legions!”

Before him, Dukes Peros and Borym blanched. They were soft, fat demons, conniving and ambitious, yet lacking the ruthlessness and drive that might have made them great. Peros looked like a vaguely ducal candle that had been placed too close to heat: his face appeared to have melted, so that his skin hung in hard folds over his skull, and any features that might once have resembled ears, a nose, cheekbones, and suchlike, had all been lost, leaving only a pair of green eyes sunk deep in the putty of his flesh. Borym’s face, meanwhile, was almost entirely lost beneath a massive brown beard, bushy eyebrows, and hair so unruly that it fought back against any attempt to cut it, as a number of Hell’s barbers had learned to their cost. Somewhere in Borym’s mass of curls were four pairs of scissors, any number of combs, and a couple of very small imps who had been sent in to retrieve these items and become hopelessly lost.

The dukes’ armor was even more ornate than Abigor’s, but far less practical, for Peros and Borym were of the school of military command that believed ordinary soldiers, not dukes, should fight battles. Dukes claimed the victory, and divided the spoils; soldiers could relish the glory of war, and later raise a drink to their exploits on the field, assuming their hands were
still sufficiently attached to their arms to enable them to raise anything more than a stump. So, whereas Abigor’s armor, although beautiful, bore the marks of conflicts endured, the suits of Peros and Borym were decorated with feathers, ribbons, unearned medals, and carvings that depicted much slimmer versions of Peros and Borym vanquishing assorted enemies in unlikely ways, and therefore were barely on nodding terms with reality.

“My lord,” said Borym, who was smart enough to see trouble brewing, but not smart enough to avoid sipping from the resulting cup, “we were only following your orders. It was you who advised us to cross the Lake of Dry Tears in an effort to take Mrs. Abernathy by surprise.”

Abigor brushed his hands together, removing the last vestiges of the bone from his gloves. On the stones below, the dust and fragments began to move, flowing across the floor and gradually reassuming the shape of a skull.

“Ow,” said the skull.

“Are you suggesting that it was my fault?” asked Abigor softly.

“No, not at—” the skull began to say, before Abigor’s metal boot stamped upon it, shattering it to pieces again.

“Of course not, my lord,” said Borym. “I meant no such impertinence.”

“So whose fault was it, then?”

“Mine, my lord,” said Borym, in a vain attempt to rescue an already doomed situation.

“And mine,” said Peros, who was too stupid to keep his mouth shut.

“It is noble of you both to accept responsibility for your failure,” said Abigor.

He clicked his fingers and eight members of his personal guard, demons of smoke contained in suits of black steel trimmed with gold, their red eyes the only indication of the life within, surrounded the dukes.

“Cast them into the dungeons,” said Abigor. “Then throw away the keys. With considerable force.”

Borym and Peros did not even try to protest as they were escorted from the room. Abigor clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes. Above him rose a vaulted ceiling like that of a cathedral. Waves of flame moved across it, blending with the fires that rose from slits in the floor and covered the walls in sheets of white and yellow, so that the whole room seemed to be afire. This was the heart of Abigor’s residence, the innermost chamber of his great palace. Next to it, Mrs. Abernathy’s lair was almost humble, but Abigor had always believed that nothing impresses quite like ostentatious and vulgar displays of wealth and power.

He should not have entrusted Borym and Peros with the task of surprising Mrs. Abernathy and trying to secure the boy’s capture. They were imbeciles who would have been hard-pressed to catch a cold. Abigor’s difficulty was that he had surrounded himself with traitorous dukes. Had he dispatched one of his cleverer allies, such as Duke Guares, to attack Mrs. Abernathy, then it was possible that Guares might either have forged a separate alliance with her, betraying Abigor, or tried to take the boy for himself. At least Abigor had no concerns about the loyalty of Borym and Peres, only their competence. Nevertheless, Abigor
had enough self-knowledge to grasp that the loss of the four legions was, in part, his own fault, although he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone else. When leaders started admitting their failings, their followers tended to seek alternative leaders with fewer failings, or less honesty.

A panel in the eastern wall of the chamber opened, and Chancellor Ozymuth stepped through the gap. Abigor did not turn around to acknowledge his presence, but merely said, “Have you come to criticize me as well, Ozymuth?”

“No, my lord,” said Ozymuth. “I was listening as you dealt with your fellow dukes, and have no desire to keep them company in their new quarters.”

“Your instincts for self-preservation are as finely honed as ever,” said Abigor. “Still, Mrs. Abernathy is cleverer than I thought, and not all of her allies have deserted her.”

“She is a worthy adversary.”

“You sound almost as if you respect her.”

“It is as well to respect one’s enemies, but I do not respect her as much as I respect you, my lord.”

Abigor laughed, but there was no mirth to it.

“Your have a serpent’s tongue, Ozymuth. I trust not one word that falls from it. What news of the boy?”

“He is with the Watcher. They await the return of Mrs. Abernathy.”

“And where is she?”

“I was hoping that you might know, my lord.”

“She has avoided my spies, or it may be that my spies have been apprehended, for I have heard no word from any of them.”

Ozymuth shifted uneasily. He had to pose the question that was on his lips, but he risked angering Abigor by doing so.

“My lord, forgive me for asking, but you are still in control of the situation, are you not?”

Ozymuth tensed. Behind him the door in the wall remained open, and he was poised to flee through it and lose himself in the labyrinthine passageways connecting Abigor’s palace to the Mountain of Despair should the duke turn on him, but instead Abigor gave the question some consideration.

“As long as the boy has not yet been handed over to the Great Malevolence, then victory remains within my grasp. Dukes Aym and Ayperos have remained loyal to Mrs. Abernathy, as have some of the counts, but we outnumber their legions two to one. They have no hope against us on the field of battle, should it come to that.”

“An army is gathering at the Forlorn Hills,” said Ozymuth. “The Infernals are heeding Mrs. Abernathy’s call to her banner.”

“Most are of the lower orders,” said Abigor. “They are untrained, and undisciplined.”

“Yet they are many.”

For a moment Abigor looked troubled. “What will she do, Ozymuth?”

“She will assemble her army to protect the boy, then march on the Mountain of Despair with her prize.”

“So we must ensure that she does not reach it. Go, Ozymuth: continue to whisper your poison into the ear of the old lord. Keep him mad. When I rule Hell, I will make sure he is well looked after.”

Ozymuth bowed low and left the room, the chamber door closing silently behind him. When he was gone, Abigor clicked his fingers once again, and the captain of his guard entered.

“Inform the dukes that they are to gather their forces before the entrance to the Mountain of Despair,” said Abigor. “Tell them to prepare for battle!”

M
RS
. A
BERNATHY’S BASILISK WAS
chained to a post, its scaly skin covered in saliva, its eyes glazed with exhaustion. Mrs. Abernathy had ridden it hard and they had encountered a number of obstacles along the way, although Mrs. Abernathy had dealt with them admirably. Those obstacles had included five of Duke Abigor’s spies, whose heads now hung from the basilisk’s saddle, the heads still arguing among themselves about which of them was most to blame for their misfortune. Mrs. Abernathy paid them no heed. Her attention was focused on the boy who sat at the base of a large gilded cage not far from the door to Mrs. Abernathy’s small but perfectly formed palace.

Samuel watched her carefully through his glasses, one lens of which had cracked as he struggled vainly to escape the Watcher’s grip when it became clear that Mrs. Abernathy’s arrival was imminent. Now, face-to-face with the woman who hated him more than any other creature in the Multiverse, he found himself examining her closely in the hope that some weakness might reveal itself. To be honest, Mrs. Abernathy didn’t look at all well. Some of the stitches keeping her face together had come loose, exposing a little of the reality of the monstrous form beneath, and her skin was discolored, marked with patches of green like mold on bread. Her clothing was filthy and torn, her hair matted and disheveled. As she circled Samuel, she nibbled at one of her fingernails, and seemed surprised when it fell off.