In Which the Watcher Is Torn
DUKE ABIGOR’S WRAITH FOLLOWED the Watcher’s progress until it was almost within sight of Mrs. Abernathy’s palace, then banked away to report back to its master. But the Watcher had known of its presence all along, and as soon as it sensed that the spy had departed, it changed course, using the clouds to hide itself as it made its way to a plateau on the Forlorn Hills. There it laid Samuel upon the ground, and placed a foot lightly on his chest so that the boy could not escape. From its perch, it stared down as Mrs. Abernathy’s army began to assemble itself below. Demons burst forth from the earth and emerged from caves. They descended from clouds and crawled from dank black pools. They formed themselves from ash, and sand, and snow, from molecules of water and the unseen atoms in the air. Horned beings, winged beings, finned beings; beings familiar, and beings shapeless; beings of fire and rock, and beings of water and ice; beings of tooth and claw, and beings of mind and energy: all had flocked to Mrs. Abernathy’s call.
Some had come out of loyalty, some out of fear, and some simply because they were bored, and gambling on the outcome of a battle, even at the possible cost of future pain if they were defeated, at least broke the tedium of damnation. Lightning flashed, illuminating spearheads, and serrated knife edges, and thousands of bladed weapons. The Watcher moved its gaze to the right. In the distance, fiery hooves struck sparks from the ground, and booted feet marched in unison, metal clanking as the first legions of those dukes who had chosen to support Mrs. Abernathy marched to her aid.
The Watcher allowed its consciousness to rove still farther. It saw the four legions of Borym and Peros moving purposefully across a cracked plain where once before, long ago even in its conception of time, a great lake of poisonous water had stood, fed by vile rivers that flowed from the surrounding peaks. The Great Malevolence had redirected the rivers to form the Lake of Cocytus, and in time the plain had dried up entirely. Now only dust flowed across it before falling into narrow crevasses that led deep into the ground below.
The four legions picked their way carefully across the treacherous landscape. They marched on foot, rank upon rank of demons, each heavily armored and each carrying in his hand a pike topped by a thin, hard blade around which curled a second length of metal shaped like a corkscrew, the weapon designed to be thrust into the belly of an enemy, twisted, and then pulled out, dragging with it the internal organs and leaving the wretched victim in agony upon the ground, for even a demon will struggle to recover itself quickly after such a terrible injury. Short stabbing swords hung at their sides, and their gloves, their helmets, even the plates of their black armor were embedded with spikes, so that the armor itself was a weapon.
By the sides of the legions, mounted on skinless horses, their exposed flesh raw and glistening, their muscles lean, rode the captains and lieutenants, their armor more ornate, their weapons bejeweled but no less capable of inflicting grave wounds. Banners waved in the cold wind, red and gold and green, the colors of the Houses of Peros and Borym, but above them all flew a single great standard, depicting a hand of fire against a sable background. This was the banner of the House of Abigor. There was no sign of Hell’s own banner, the horned head of the Great Malevolence, the symbol of his armies. The dukes had made their loyalties public and were no longer primarily serving the Great Malevolence, but the demon who wished to succeed him.
It was the horses, their eyes and mouths lit red by the fires within, that first sensed the approach of an unknown threat. They whinnied and neighed, then rose up on their hind legs, almost unseating their riders. Confusion rippled through the ranks as Ronwe, a minor demon who had allied his nineteen legions with Borym and was now the second-in-command of all his forces, turned to shout an order, an order that was destined never to be heard as the ground opened up and swallowed both Ronwe and his steed. The crevasse before the front rank widened, forcing it to halt. Stinking green gases emerged from the revealed pit, and the ground at the edges began to crumble, taking two dozen legionnaires with it into the depths. Those who had witnessed what had occurred, and who were thus aware of the danger, tried to retreat, but they were hemmed in by the ranks advancing from behind, and more tumbled down. Captains called out orders, attempting to halt the advance and permit the front ranks to fall back, but their horses were trying to throw them, and the troops were starting to panic, and the ground continued to crack and break, marooning whole cohorts of legionnaires on islands of dry earth that themselves began to crumble.
And then the creatures from below commenced their attack. Massive tentacles, ridged along their length with sticky, poisonous barbs, shot from the pits, dragging demon soldiers into the darkness. Giant red insects, their jaws capable of swallowing a man’s head whole, poured forth, their palps twitching, their mouthpieces snapping. The arms of the troops were not strong enough to pierce their carapaces, nor was their armor capable of withstanding the force of the insects’ bites. Worms long hidden beneath the earth opened their jaws, and what had once seemed solid ground became a trap filled with teeth, and feet were severed from legs, and heads from bodies.
But some of Duke Peros’s finest soldiers had found solid ground at the edge of the lake bed, and were working their way carefully around the killing field, keeping their enemies at bay as best they could by discipline and force of will. They were halfway around the circumference, from which the surrounding hills rose precipitously like the sides of a volcano, when earth began to fall on their heads from above, revealing neat, round holes in the dusty soil, and webbed claws started to pull at their feet and arms and necks, and the Burrowers began to bite.
And the lake bed, long dry, ran red and black with the blood of demons.
The Watcher, distant yet aware, saw it all. This conflict threatened to tear Hell itself apart, but the Watcher remained uncertain of how to proceed, for the sound of the Great Malevolence’s wailing still carried to it, and it seemed that the cries would never stop. If a king is mad, then what are his subjects to do?38 Without the fear that the Great Malevolence inspired, it was inevitable that his subordinates would begin to fight among themselves, jockeying for power and position. But the threat posed by Abigor was greater than mere disorder, for Abigor was now in open rebellion against his lord.
The mass of demons below continued to swell as more and more of Hell’s denizens flocked to Mrs. Abernathy’s banner. Grand Duke Aym arrived with his twenty-six legions; Ayperos, Prince of Hell, with thirty-six; and Azazel, the standard-bearer of Hell’s armies, took up a position on a great rock and unfurled the flag of the Great Malevolence.
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 Eart
h. 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.
XXXI
In Which We Learn a Little of the Responsibilities of Command, and the Perils of Being Commanded
DUKE ABIGOR 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 com
petence. 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.