The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

by John Connolly

  A great cheer rose from the ranks, and blades and claws and teeth flashed.

  “But first our foes must be vanquished,” Mrs. Abernathy continued. “Already they gather before the entrance to the Mountain of Despair, intent upon instituting a new order in Hell, as if their ambitions can ever compare to the purity of our master’s evil. They are led by the traitor Abigor, and great will be his suffering when victory is achieved. Now look upon our prize!”

  The Watcher ascended, and its claws grasped the ring at the top of the cage. The gilded prison rose into the air, and suddenly Samuel was sailing over the lines of demons, hundreds of thousands strong, all screaming their hatred at him as the cage flew barely inches above their heads, their spears and knives and sharp claws aimed at him as though hoping that they might save the Great Malevolence the trouble of ripping him apart. Samuel saw demons mounted on dragons and serpents, on toads and spiders and living fossils. He saw battle machines: catapults, and cannons, and great spiked wagons. He saw, amid the chaos of the lesser demons, the massed, ordered ranks of the legions, their loyalties distinguished by the banners of each duke, although those banners always flew lower than the standards depicting a horned figure set against a black background.

  At last Samuel was lowered onto a flat wagon, where Mrs. Abernathy was already waiting for him. She ordered a black cloth to be placed over the cage, “a taste of the greater blackness to come,” and Samuel’s last sight as the cloth fell was of Mrs. Abernathy’s triumphant, grinning visage.

  The Watcher resumed its perch above the gathering. It saw the legions take the head of a column that began to snake toward the Mountain of Despair, the untrained masses falling loosely into place behind the troops. A fresh mount had been found for Mrs. Abernathy, a massive hybrid of horse and serpent, its snake head snapping at its bridle, upon which she sat sidesaddle at the head of her army. She had even donned a new dress for the occasion, a little blue number with a lace collar. The wagon bearing the covered cage was surrounded by a phalanx of legionnaires who had been gifted to Mrs. Abernathy by the allied dukes, and now bore a new coat of arms: a lady’s handbag, decorated with a yellow daisy.

  Curious, thought the Watcher. Appropriate, but… curious.

  XXXIII

  In Which a Third Force Intervenes in the Conflict

  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 befo
re 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.”

  XXXIV

  In Which We Encounter Some Cunning Disguises

  THERE 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 r
eceived 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.”