The Infernals (27 page)

“Right you are,” said Edgefast. “I’ll look after things.”

Desperate though he was to relieve himself, Brompton took a moment’s pause.

“Now, you know this is a big responsibility.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“You can’t let anyone in who isn’t supposed to be allowed in, and since nobody is supposed to be allowed in—Chancellor Ozymuth’s orders—then you mustn’t let anybody in, full stop.”

“Understood.”

“Not anybody.”

“They shall not pass,” said Edgefast sternly.

“No passing. Not a one.”

Brompton moved away, then came back again.

“Nobody, right?”

“No. Body. Nobody.”

“Good.”

Brompton shuffled off. Edgefast whistled a happy tune. It was his first time alone at the entrance, and he liked being in
charge. He was a good guard, was Edgefast. He didn’t nip off for naps, he took his job seriously, and he was happy to serve. He had the right spirit for a guard.

Unfortunately he had the wrong body, namely none at all.

He heard the beating of wings and two large red feet landed in front of him. Since he couldn’t move his head, Edgefast did his best to look up by raising his eyebrows and squinting. The Watcher’s eight black eyes stared down at him in bemusement.

“Nobody’s allowed in, mate,” said Edgefast. “You’ll have to leave a message.”

The Watcher considered this possibility for a moment, then simply stepped around Edgefast and marched into the heart of the mountain.

“Oi!” shouted Edgefast. “Come back. You can’t do that. I’m the guard. I’m guarding. You can’t just step around me. It’s not fair. Seriously! You’re undermining my authority. Back you come and we’ll say no more about it, all right?”

The sound of the Watcher’s footsteps grew distant.

“All right?” repeated Edgefast.

There was silence, then more footsteps, this time lighter, and approaching with the reluctant shamble of someone who is returning to work but really would prefer not to be.

“Yeah, all right,” said Brompton. “Feel much better, thanks. Forgot to wash me hands, but never mind. Anything I should know about?”

Edgefast thought carefully before answering.

“No,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

T
HERE WERE MANY CURIOUS
and alarming vehicles dotted among the opposing sides on the battlefield: war wagons, their steel-rimmed wheels accessorized with bladed spikes, their beds protected by layers of metal to shield the driver and the archers beneath; primitive tanks with long turrets through which oil could be pumped and then ignited by a standing flame at the mouth of the weapon; siege weapons shaped like serpents, and dragons, and sea monsters; and field catapults crewed and ready for action, their cradles filled with rocks.

A word about the rocks, or, indeed, a word
from
the rocks, which might be equally appropriate: as we have already seen, there were numerous entities in Hell—trees, clouds, and so on—that were sentient when, under ordinary circumstances, they should not have been. Among them were certain types of rock that had developed little mouths, some rudimentary eyes, and an overestimation of their own value in what passed
for Hell’s ecosystem.
40
Thus it was that a number of the rocks residing in the cradles of the catapults were complaining loudly about their situation, pointing out that they would, upon impact, be reduced to the status of pebbles or, even worse, rubble, which is the equivalent of a king or queen being forced to live in a tent and claim unemployment benefits. Nobody was listening, of course, since they were rocks, and there’s a limit to the amount of harm a rock can do unless someone gives it a bit of help by flinging it at someone or something with considerable force. As these rocks would very soon be headed in the direction of the enemy, it was felt that they could address their complaints to interested parties on the other side, assuming the individuals in question (a) survived having a rock flung at them; and (b) were in the mood to consider the rock’s complaints about its treatment in the aftermath, which seemed unlikely.

So when a large rock with four eyes began pressing through the ranks of Mrs. Abernathy’s demons, it barely merited a second glance, even if it did appear to be growling more than most rocks tended to. Neither did the vehicle following in its wake attract much attention, even if its effectiveness as a machine of war was debatable given that its weaponry consisted solely of four wooden posts stuck to its front and rear parts, the remainder of its body being covered by a white dustproof cloth with slits at eye level. What was beyond question, however,
was the ferocity of the four small demons riding upon its back. Horns protruded from their foreheads, and their faces dripped with disgusting green and red fluids of indeterminate origin. Somehow they contrived to be even more terrible than the two warthog demons escorting the larger vehicle, and who discouraged those unwise creatures who tried to peer under the dust cloth from investigating further by hitting them very hard with big clubs.

“Coming through,” shouted Jolly. “Mind your backs.” He nudged Dozy. “And stop licking that raspberry and lime from your face. You’re ruining the effect.”

“One of my horns is coming loose,” said Angry.

“Then use more chewing gum,” said Jolly. “Here, take mine.”

He removed a lump of pink material from his mouth and handed it to Angry, who accepted it with some reluctance and used it to stick his ice-cream cone horn more securely to his forehead.

“Grrrrrr!” said Mumbles, waving one of D. Bodkin’s staplers in a threatening manner.

“Let us at them!” said Dozy. “We’ll tear their heads off and use them for bowling balls.”

“Sissies, the lot of ’em,” cried Angry, getting into the spirit of the thing and making a variety of rude gestures at Duke Abigor’s forces in the hope that at least one of them would be understood as an insult by the opposing side.

“Easy, lads,” said the voice of Constable Peel from somewhere under the dust cloth. “We don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“What kind of attention would that be?” asked Angry, and received his answer as a black arrow whistled past his ear and embedded itself in the body of the ice-cream van. “Oh, right. Fair enough.”

The little convoy made its way slowly alongside the wagon on which rested Samuel’s hooded cage. Dozy and Mumbles produced some paper cups and began pouring drinks for the demons surrounding the wagon.

“Drink up, boys,” said Dozy, handing down the cups. “And girls. And, er, whatever you are. Haven’t you ever heard of having a drink before the war?”

And while the demons drank, temporarily sacrificing their eyesight, their balance, and their desire to live to cups of not-quite-right-but-still-not-too-bad-all-things-considered imitation Spiggit’s, Angry and Jolly dropped from the roof onto the bed of the wagon. Mumbles threw them a sack, and the two dwarfs, with their burden, slipped silently under the cloth.

Mrs. Abernathy raised a hand to halt her troops. Three horses, on which were mounted members of Abigor’s personal guard, advanced from the opposing lines. A white banner fluttered from a pike held by the leader of the three, the captain of the guard. They rode to within hailing distance of Mrs. Abernathy, and halted.

“By order of Duke Abigor, we demand the surrender of the traitor, Mrs. Abernathy,” said the captain.

In the distance Mrs. Abernathy could see Abigor mounted on his great steed, his red cloak bleeding into the air behind him. Surrender? Could he be serious? She thought not. He was
covering himself in case questions later arose about his conduct. Yes, he could say, I gave her the opportunity to surrender and avoid conflict, but she refused, and so I had no choice but to proceed against her.

“I know of no traitor by such a name,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “I know only of the traitor Abigor, who has taken arms against the commander of Hell’s forces. If
he
surrenders to
me,
and orders his demons to lay down their weapons and disperse, then I can promise him … nothing at all, actually. Regardless, he is doomed. It is merely a matter of how deep in the great Lake of Cocytus I choose to inter him.”

“He also demands that you hand over the boy, Samuel Johnson,” said the captain, as if Mrs. Abernathy had not spoken. “He is an interloper, a pollutant, and an enemy of the state. Duke Abigor will ensure that he is imprisoned securely, that he may do no further harm.”

“That too I refuse,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “Is there anything else?”

“Indeed there is,” said the captain. “Duke Abigor orders you to reveal the whereabouts of the portal between worlds, a portal that was opened without the knowledge or approval of our master, the Great Malevolence, and threatens the stability of this realm.”

Mrs. Abernathy said nothing for a time, as though composing a suitable response. Eventually the captain of the guard grew tired of waiting.

“What answer should I bring to Duke Abigor?” he said. “Speak now, lest he unleash his wrath upon you.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Abernathy, “you can say—oh, never mind, I’ll let you work it out yourself.”

From her back emerged her lethal tentacles. Before the three riders could react, they were enveloped, and within seconds they and their horses had been ripped apart. Mrs. Abernathy gathered up the remains, crushed them into a ball of flesh and bone, leather and metal, then hurled it in the direction of Abigor’s lines. The mess rolled as far as Abigor’s mount, where it bounced off the horse’s front legs and came to rest.

“I think that was a ‘no,’” said Abigor. “I was rather hoping it would be. Jolly good. Carnage it is, then.”

The Watcher moved swiftly through the Mountain of Despair. The arches and alcoves that had echoed with laughter and mockery during Mrs. Abernathy’s last visit were now silent. The creatures that dwelled within them retreated to the shadows, fearful of drawing the attention of the Watcher to themselves, and only when it had passed did they peer out at it. It was a long time since the Watcher had walked through those great halls, but the memory of it had remained. Its presence in the mountain was a reminder of an older order, and as it walked it seemed to grow larger and more powerful, as though feeding upon an energy meant for it alone.

Chancellor Ozymuth waited for it at the end of the causeway. He raised his staff and the Watcher halted.

“Go back, old one,” said Ozymuth. “There is no place for you here. Your time is over. A new force rises.”

The Watcher’s black eyes stared at him implacably. In them, Ozymuth was reflected eight times, a pale figure against the darkness, as though he were already lost.

“The Great Malevolence is mad,” continued Ozymuth. “Another will rule in his stead until his wits are restored. Mrs. Abernathy must bow to the inevitable, and you must find some dusty, forgotten corner of this kingdom where you may fade from remembrance, lest you share the fate of your doomed mistress. Cocytus is wide and deep, and there is a place in it for you, should you continue to resist the inevitable. Your time of service to your mistress has come to an end.”

The voice of the Watcher spoke in Ozymuth’s head.

Mrs. Abernathy is not my mistress.

Ozymuth’s desiccated features formed themselves into the semblance of a grin. “You see sense, then?”

I serve another.

“You speak of Duke Abigor? It may be that he can find some use for you.”

No. I serve another.

Ozymuth frowned. “You answer in riddles. Perhaps age has addled your brain after all. Go! I am done with you. We are all done with you. Your fall will be great.”

Ozymuth was about to turn away when one of the Watcher’s hands grasped him by the throat and lifted him from the ground. Ozymuth tried to speak but the Watcher’s grip was too tight, and Ozymuth could only gurgle as he was held over the edge of the causeway, his eyes widening in understanding. Beneath him opened a swirling vortex of red like the interior
of a volcano, but its very center was dark, the blackness within terrible to behold.

You have poisoned my master. You have brought us to the brink of war.

Ozymuth managed to shake his head, his feet kicking, his hands clawing at the Watcher’s arms as he heard the last words he would ever hear.

It is your fall that will be great.

The Watcher released him, and Ozymuth began his eternal descent.

S
AMUEL TURNED AT THE
sound of his cage bars rattling. A match flared, and he experienced a moment of pure terror at the sight of the demonic figures revealed, until one of the ice-cream cone horns fell from Angry’s forehead once again, and Jolly rubbed some of the “blood” from his face, licked his fingertips, and said, “It’s just raspberry syrup! Oh, and sweat.”

“All right, son?” said Angry. “We’ll have you out of there in no time, as long as the lightning holds off for a minute or two.”

From somewhere on his person he produced a set of picks, and began working on the lock.

“What’s happening?” asked Samuel. “I can’t see much from in here.”

“Well,” said Jolly, striking another match as the first one died, “that Mrs. Abernathy woman was asked to surrender and hand you over, but she didn’t think much of that idea, so she tore
the messengers apart, rolled them in a ball, and sent them back where they came from. Strong female, she is. Model of her kind, assuming anyone could tell what kind she is, exactly. My guess is that, anytime now, there’s going to be a lot of shouting, and stabbing, and general warmongering going on all around us.”

“What about Nurd, and Boswell, and the others?”

“All fine, and all nearby.”

There was a loud
click,
and the cage door opened.

“Barely worth the name ‘lock,’ that was,” said Angry. “I’ve had cans of beer that were harder to open.”