The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

XXXIII

THE WAGON RUMBLED BENEATH Samuel, tossing him from side to side as its rough-hewn wheels passed over the uneven ground. The repeated impacts against the cage were bruising his body, so he tried to hold on tight to the bars to prevent himself from being injured further. The cloth that covered the cage was quite thick, although Samuel’s silhouette was still visible to those outside when lightning flashed, and he could just make out a tiny sliver of landscape visible through a hole in the material. When the wagon at last found itself on even ground, Samuel crawled over to the hole, knelt down, and peered out.

Elevated as he was above the surrounding horde, Samuel could see some distance across the Plains of Desolation. The Mountain of Despair rose before him, so big that it dominated the entire horizon, the extent of its base impossible to measure, its peak lost amid the battling clouds. There was an opening visible at the foot of the mountain, tiny by comparison with the great mass of black rock, but still huge enough to accommodate a hundred men standing on one another’s shoulders, with room to spare so that the topmost man would not bang his head. Samuel had seen that opening before: through it, the Great Malevolence had briefly emerged just as it seemed his invasion of the world of men was destined to succeed. The memory reminded Samuel of what he was about to face: the vengeance of the most fearful being the Multiverse had ever known, an entity of pure evil, a creature without love, or pity, or mercy.

Terrified though he was, Samuel did not weaken. It is one thing to be brave in front of others, perhaps for fear of being branded a coward and becoming diminished in their eyes, but another entirely to be brave when there is nobody to witness your courage. The latter is an elemental bravery, a strength of spirit and character. It is a revelation of the essence of the self, and as Samuel crouched in his cage, slowly approaching the place in which his doom would be fixed, his face was calm and his soul was at peace. He had done nothing wrong. He had stood up for what he believed was right in order to protect his friends, his mother, his town, and the Earth itself. He did not rail at the unfairness of what was to come, for he understood in his heart that it would serve no purpose and would only make his torment harder to endure.

Had there been a soul inside Mrs. Abernathy for her to examine, or had her vanity and lust for power and revenge not clouded her insight, she might have come to understand that she did not so much hate Samuel Johnson as fear him. There was an essential goodness to him that she could not touch, a decency that remained untainted by all that he had experienced so far in his short life. Samuel Johnson was human, with all of the flaws and foibles that came with his species. He could be jealous and sad, angry and selfish, but in him a little part of the best of humanity glowed brightly, just as it illuminates so many of us if we choose to let it. What Mrs. Abernathy did not grasp was that, despite all that she or her master might visit upon him, she would never, ever defeat Samuel Johnson, and no matter how deep or dark the place in which he was interred, his soul would continue to shine.

The wagon ascended an incline, and as it reached the top Samuel gasped, for arrayed on the plain before him was another mighty army: row upon row of demon legionnaires, their long shields catching the reflection of the bolts of lightning that broke through the clouds above with greater and greater frequency and ferocity, as though the angry spirits in the skies were urging on the opposing forces, seeking on the battlefield below a reflection of their own wrath. Mounted cavalry were moving into position, the eyes of their skinless steeds like hot coals set in ash, their hooves striking sparks from the stony ground.

Behind the main ranks strode the monsters of the underworld: Cyclopses, and minotaurs, and snake-headed hydrae; gigantic Gorgons, their faces masked with plates of gold until the order came to reveal themselves, but their serpentine locks already writhing in anticipation of the fighting to come; and lurching, predatory creatures with the bodies of men and the heads of vicious animals. Many of the beasts seemed familiar to Samuel, and not merely because they had formed part of the huge force originally destined to conquer the Earth. These were the monsters that shadowed all of the Earth’s mythologies and religions, the beings that had appeared to the ancients in nightmares and had found their way into legends and fairy tales.

Allied with them were jumbled entities that had never been imagined before, for only madness could have conjured up such visions: heads on legs, scuttling sideways like crabs, sharp teeth snapping; creatures that were hybrids of shark and spider, of toad and bat, of earwig and dog, as though segments of every animal that ever existed on Earth had been tossed in a great vat and allowed to fuse with one another.

And then there were beings that bore no resemblance to anything from Samuel’s world, even in the most passing of ways: shifting masses of matter that reached out with wisps of darkness, probing for prey; fleshy globes with a thousand mouths; and entities that existed only as painful sounds, or poisonous smells. It seemed that no force could stand up to such horrors and triumph, yet similar creatures, and worse, had gathered to serve Mrs. Abernathy. Her army might have been more ragged and less disciplined than her enemy’s, with fewer of the trained legions to array themselves meticulously for battle, but Samuel believed that Mrs. Abernathy’s strength was greater overall. The conflict would be a test of strategy against might, of military training against sheer weight of numbers.

But regardless of who won, Samuel would ultimately lose, for all here wished him harm.

• • •

The Watcher flew high over the battlefield, higher even than the winged scout demons of Mrs. Abernathy and Duke Abigor, so high that the gathering combatants were lost to it and there was only cloud below and the peaks of the Mountain of Despair rising before it. The Watcher had made its decision. It could not stand by and watch Hell torn apart. Its loyalty was to one, and one only: the Great Malevolence.

It was time for the bells to ring.

At the entrance to the Mountain of Despair, Brompton and Edgefast were regarding the awesome armies, the greatest ever gathered in conflict in Hell’s long history, with the slightly bored air of men who are watching a repeat of a football game to which they already know the final score, and which hadn’t been very interesting the first time around.

“Busy out there today,” said Edgefast. Despite the fact that he could quite easily have had himself reassembled after Mrs. Abernathy tore him apart, he was still a severed head resting beside a pile of assorted limbs and bits of torso, although he now had a cushion, thanks to an uncharacteristic moment of weakness on the part of Brompton. Edgefast had elected to remain a talking head because (a) he claimed that his experience had altered his view of Hell, and he now saw the world, quite literally, from a different angle; (b) he no longer had to worry about laundry, or tying his shoelaces; and (c) he could spot anyone really small who might try to sneak in. This had seemed perfectly acceptable to Brompton, who didn’t want to have to bother getting to know another new guard.

“Suppose so,” said Brompton, picking at his teeth. “If you like that kind of thing.”

“Makes a change, though, doesn’t it, all them demons milling around? Very exciting, I’d say.”

“I don’t approve of change,” said Brompton. “Or excitement.” He shifted from one foot to another, and looked uncomfortable. “Mind you, I shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea. Gone right through me, that has. I’m about to have an accident. Look, mind the shop for five minutes while I go and, you know, make myself lighter in a liquid way.”

“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.”