‘This is rather fun,’ said Orff, as Legion turned into a rhinoceros and skewered four marauding monks on its horn. Then it changed into a thousand wasps, dumping the four bodies unceremoniously on the floor while simultaneously attacking a whole group of Teutonic Knights.
Alf swooped his head forward and gulped down several attackers in one go, making a little runway for Djinn to wisp into. He expanded his girth to absorb six Aztec priests, then contracted suddenly, knocking them together so that bits of them fell off.
‘Told you so,’ said Kartofel as Talullah incinerated a whole platoon of Spanish Inquisitors. ‘All those years of whining. All you needed was a little bit of healthy destruction. Does you the world of good.’
Death pulled hard on the horse’s reins, and swung the scythe round. A row of rotting cavaliers were sliced in half just before they could lunge at the group of mists fighting nearest to her. The horse reared up, and they changed direction, heading for the next closest band of mists in peril.
‘Nnnn, you there,’ yelled a voice from behind her. She lopped off the heads of a couple of Spartans and turned to see a mist scrambling toward her carrying nothing but a shield. Behind him, doing an excellent job of preventing his evaporation, were two more: a young woman with a long staff, and a portly man in a wizard’s hat. ‘Nnnn. What do you think you’re playing at? We should be in retreat, or else we should be turning!’
Death’s brow furrowed. An axe thudded into her thigh, as if she were a ham on a butcher’s block. The sound she made was more out of shock than pain. Her attacker, a stern fat-faced little man, was clumsy: he had a crazed look of righteous indignation on his face, but he lacked experience. He frantically yanked at his axe, trying to dislodge it.
Death swore. (She had quite an impressive vocabulary of swear words, thanks to her presence at the scene of so many accidents.) The man put his foot against her horse’s flank and pulled with all his strength. She felt herself begin to topple, and before she knew it she had let go of her scythe and was on the ground. She landed on top of her attacker, pressing the axe deeper into her thigh. She flailed at the man, only stopping when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to axe anybody ever again.
‘And now you’ve gone and lost your horse,’ said the mist with the shield. ‘That’s like losing a standard bearer. Shoddy.’
‘Excuse him,’ said the young woman. ‘He’s a sexist idiot. I think you’re doing a great job. Cool hair, by the way.’
‘Are you trying to lose us the war?’ yelled Death. She yanked the axe from her thigh, and it came away cleanly. The indentation (for ‘wound’ seemed too grand a name) fizzed a little. Steam rose from it, and it was healed.
A zealot wearing a Welsh Guards uniform blundered out of the mist. Death swung the axe in an upward curve, literally disarming him before felling him as she brought it down.
‘What do you say to that then, Teg?’ said the mist with the staff.
‘Nnnn, I could do that if I had an axe,’ said Teg.
‘You could have,’ said Death. ‘Think of it, and it will be in your hand. Don’t you know anything?’ She demonstrated by making a new scythe appear.
Teg’s shield reformed itself into a huge axe, and he promptly fell over from the weight of it. The mist with the staff started to laugh, and even Death allowed herself a smile. It was a moment soon cut short, for a mob of angry villagers and townsfolk charged out of the fog. A man in dungarees and a straw hat thrust his pitchfork at them. Death dodged it, and instead the blow stabbed Teg in the backside, and with a steamy fssst he was gone.
Death called out for her horse. The mist with the staff had now become the mist with the spear, and her companion had gained a bow. The three of them stood back to back as the villagers circled them, farming implements jabbing out of the steam. They were surrounded.
Their enemies did not get much time to sport with them, however. There was a great beating of wings, and the gas demon and his gannet landed in the middle of the circle and gobbled down the front row of attackers. Seconds later, the other two demons joined them, and they had enough breathing space to rejoin the main army.
Heartened, Death cried out, ‘Let’s show them what we are made of!’
Nearby, a philosopher was evaporated by an angry conquistador.
‘I think they already know,’ said Kartofel.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The War Games
Ben wasted no time tethering Druss and dashed towards the gates of Pandemonium. He raised his hand, expecting the door to swing open as it had done for Neil, and when it didn’t he knocked. When there was no reply, he followed up with a series of loud raps, building in intensity until he was pounding his fist on the door, making an ominous gong sound.
Druss, who had been sitting patiently on the soft earthen wasteland, stirred. He sat up on his hind legs and tilted his head forward, his ears raised. He twitched his nose, scraped a paw across his face twice in quick succession, and began to stamp rhythmically with his left hind leg. The ground shook, and the walls of Pandemonium soon followed.
It was not long before a little head popped over the wall about fifty metres from the gates. ‘Oi,’ it said. ‘Shut that chuffin’ rabbit up, will yer?’
‘Neil?’ said Ben.
‘Eh up, Ben. You all right?’
‘Not really. I need to see The Opposition.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know about that. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘That’s why I’m here. It’s urgent.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose. Hang on a mo.’ Neil’s head disappeared, his chain mail clanking as he went. A good while later a hidden door swung out of the wall, and Neil reappeared. ‘Come on then, I haven’t got all chuffin’ day.’
Ben ducked inside, and Neil pulled the door shut with a sharp tug.
They walked down a humid dark corridor full of glistening cobwebs. The further they went the hotter it got, until it opened out on to a massive warehouse.
On every spare bit of floor there was a piece of machinery working at full pelt, ranging from huge looms to tiny clockwork contraptions. Around each machine worked a number of demons: two gorillas with goats’ legs worked a furnace one-third their size, while dozens of penguin-grasshopper hybrids with eyepatches on fell over each other trying to work a single crane.
‘I suppose all this chaos is how Pandemonium gets its name,’ said Ben.
‘Oh no, not at all. Would’ve thought an educated bloke like yerself would know that. Gets its name from an old poem by some bloke called Milton Johns. His Nibs liked it so much he nicked it. Used to be called Lxtyplxc before that, but no one could say it.’
Neil scampered past busy demons and even busier machines. The heat was intense, and in the few minutes they had spent crossing the factory floor Ben was able to watch the sweat patch on the back of Neil’s tunic grow.
At the opposite end of the room was a metal staircase leading up to a gantry, at the end of which was a wooden door with glass panels. The top panel had ‘PROPRIETOR’ painted on in gold letters. Halfway down was a small brass knocker in the shape of a dog’s paw. It was too low for Ben, but the perfect height for Neil, who rapped on it three times. A tired voice beckoned them to enter.
The Opposition was pacing along the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing a general’s uniform in the classic style, with one exception: it was purple tie-dye. Ben saw a flash of worry in his face, one that was soon choked away with a warm smile.
‘Ah, Ben. It seems we’re in a bit of a pickle. They blew the Sixth and Seventh Strident Blasts.’
The office door rattled as it closed, and Neil stood to attention beside Ben, his chest out.
‘Oh, hello, Captain. At ease. How are things at the foundry? Ben, would you like some tea?’ The Opposition clapped his hands before either of them could answer, and a small door opened. Crouch entered, carrying the tea things on a silver platter. Neil cursed under his breath (Ben caught the word ‘chuffing’) and gave a low grow
l. Crouch unloaded the tray and left, his snake tail hissing at Neil, who erupted in uncontrolled yelping.
‘Come now, Captain,’ said The Opposition. ‘The Foundry?’
‘Oh yessir, sorry, sir,’ said Neil sheepishly. ‘Foundry’s running at full capacity, sir. All claws, paws, hoofs and wings to the pump, sir.’
‘Very good. And the army?’
‘All the armies of Hell are primed and awaiting yer orders, sir. Except the ones without weapons yet, foundry’s working on that. And the Dis Fusiliers, but you know what chuffin’ lazy bar stools they are down there, pardon my Aramaic, sir.’
The Opposition rolled his eyes. ‘Please don’t call it Hell, Captain. You know I can’t abide that word. I’ve told you countless times before. That will be all. Dismissed.’
‘Yessir, thank you, sir,’ barked Neil, and saluted. The Opposition lazily returned the gesture, and Neil exited through yet another door.
‘So, Ben, I assume that the Prime One did not make an appearance?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Indeed. How did the angels take it?’
‘They don’t care. They’re going to attack anyway.’
‘How predictable of them. Speaking of attacking, what do you think of the uniform? Khaki isn’t my thing, but I’m not entirely convinced this is either.’ He turned side on, as if admiring the cut in a mirror.
‘Erm . . . it’s very nice?’ said Ben. ‘Look, I’m sorry but maybe we should focus on the war? There’s an army of ghosts between them and you, but they’re massively outnumbered.’
The Opposition brought a cup to his lips and sipped slowly. ‘Quite. Any suggestions?’
‘Take the fight to them. We need reinforcements, and you’ve got an army.’
The Opposition drained his cup and put it down. ‘The problem with that is the Veil has already begun to crack. And the most important thing about the Veil is that it’s not just a barrier keeping the worlds apart: it’s also the glue that holds them together. Now what do you suppose will happen if an army is marched through it?’
‘An army is coming through it one way or another. At least if it’s yours then we’ve got a chance.’
‘Well, yes. When you put it like that, I suppose you have a point. This whole business requires something of a tactical mind, and I, well, I made Neil Captain of the Guards. That, and this outfit, should tell you how suited I am to military thinking. Which is why I am happy to cede all my armies directly to you.’
‘Me?’ said Ben.
‘Why not? You know a thing or two about war games, don’t you? Squat used to tell me all about something called War Monster in his reports. He was rather enthusiastic.’
‘Warmonger. But that’s done with dice, and a tape measure, and miniatures. And not when the existence of everything everywhere is at stake.’
‘True, but I expect the principle is much the same. Someone somewhere nonchalantly pushes the pieces around, and somewhere else some poor group of grunts dies.’
The edge of the Veil was a disconcerting place. Light refracted in strange ways, and a constantly evolving stream of colour filled the vision: reds, oranges and yellows collided and morphed into blues, indigos, violets.
The movements of both armies were severely restricted. Combatants would turn to the left and find themselves unable to move, an unseen barricade blocking their way. A turn to the right, and all would be well again. It was as if the battle had entered an invisible labyrinth. They did not know it, but they were fighting inside the Veil, slipping in and out of the imperceptible cracks that the Seventh Strident Blast had made.
Death and the demons had the advantage of their mounts, all of which could pass through the Veil unhindered, but even they were restricted by the horde of cadavers, so densely packed that even Legion was finding it difficult to take shape. And with still more zealots flooding up the hill, eager to join the melee, it appeared that it would not be long before they were overwhelmed.
Ben and The Opposition shook hands.
‘I think you might have use of that metaphorical tent of mine,’ said The Opposition. ‘A literal metaphorical tent.’
‘We need someone to deliver our terms,’ said Ben.
‘Of course,’ said The Opposition, making a little humming noise as he mulled it over. He did not have long to think about it before the glass-panelled door shot open, and Neil came hurtling through.
‘Sorry to interrupt sir I’ve a scout just back from the rim of Hell of the Underworld I mean sorry sir and he says that the mists have been pushed to the outer rim sir and that the angels are coming.’
‘Sir Ben has assumed command of all our armies, Captain,’ said The Opposition, fluttering a hand in Ben’s direction. ‘Tell him.’
Neil turned to Ben, and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to interrupt sir but I’ve a scout just back from the rim—’
‘Just obey his orders as if they were my own, Captain.’
‘Right y’are, sir,’ he said, and again turned to Ben, this time standing to attention. ‘Awaiting yer orders, sir.’
‘Right. Orders. Yes . . . I think you should prepare the armies, and we’ll ride out to the Veil as soon as they’re ready. If that’s all right with you.’
‘Sir, yessir.’
‘Erm . . . dismissed?’ said Ben, returning Neil’s salute. The dog-demon turned on his heels, and scampered out.
‘So the battle of Armageddon is to be fought on Good Intentions,’ said The Opposition, sniggering slightly. Ben did not laugh along. He felt a bit sick.
You’ll be fine. Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world. Ha! Now, about that emissary . . .’ The Opposition clapped his hands, and Crouch came in through one of the doors.
‘Ah, Crouch. How would you like to be made an Ambassador?’
Three of the angels appeared in the sky, high above the advancing army. Their orange auras turned pink, then purple, then blue in the light of the Veil.
‘Push through!’ screamed the scrawny one. ‘Tear it down! We will march on Hell! We will execute The Adversary at the gates of Pandemonium! The angelic age will begin!’
A cheer rose in the ranks of the Zealous Army, and there was a sudden surge forward. All around, Death saw mists being pressed together, forced into an ill-defined grey mass. The tide of bodies swept her away from the demons, and the girl with the spear and her companion disappeared, lost in the fog.
Everything began to shake. The revolving rainbow of colour shimmered and bled into one twilight-purple shade. Pressed bodies spilt on to the floor, and the ground groaned under the weight of them.
And then all Hell broke loose.
The boy and his rabbit burst through the Veil and landed square in the middle of a legion of undead monks. The rabbit bit and kicked at them before zipping forward unexpectedly. It swerved, trampled three angry-looking teenage girls, and then shot off into the distance.
Behind them, with banners unfurled and blades drawn, was what could just as well be called a menagerie as an army. It was led by a little dog-demon riding a velociraptor, and included minotaurs, harpies, cockatrices and kittens.
The demons’ war drums started to pound, and Death saw confusion and horror on the faces of her opponents. Freed from the constraints of the Veil and bolstered by reinforcements, the mists set about their work with a new vigour.
In the chaos, no one noticed the grand canvas tent that had appeared exactly in middle of the valley, as if it had always been there. Nor did they notice the squealing demon in a butler’s uniform soaring over the heads of both armies, deep into enemy territory.
Crouch was used to indignity. The Opposition had a flair for doing things the wrong way round (which secretly annoyed him, as he was the kind of demon that liked things to be just so) and therefore it was no surprise to him that his new role as Ambassador for the Underworld would involve being catapulted behind enemy lines to deliver terms of engagement. He didn’t protest – he was nothing if not loyal – and just got on with the job of being fl
ung through the air really quickly.
He landed at the back of the Army of Martyrs. The last few soldiers, a platoon of diademed clerics, were about to charge into the valley when one of them spotted him, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, and took him protesting and squirming all the way to where the Cult of the Winds and the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse were surveying the battle.
‘There’s ssssso little for usssss to do here. It’ssss really dull,’ moaned Pestilence. ‘I’m redyoossssed to growing cancerssss in my fingerssss for fun.’
‘We don’t need you,’ said The Archivist, exasperated. ‘You don’t have to be here.’
‘We dessssstroy the world for you and now you can’t wait to get rid of ussss,’ she said. ‘It’ssss not like there’ssss anything to infect out there. That’sssss the problem with epic battlessss between ssssssupernatural beingsss. No place for disseassessss. If thissss was happening on Earth, I’d have cholera, gangrene, trench foot to play with. Jussssst look at poor Famine, he’ssss wasssssting away.’
‘As long as there’s canapés,’ said Famine, stuffing his face with a handful of vol-au-vents, ‘I don’t really mind what we do.’
‘Shut it, you two,’ said War. He had been talking over the finer points of his strategy – keep killing them until they’re all dead – with The Triumph, and had to break off the conversation to silence the others. ‘I’m working. Can’t you see that this is my masterpiece?’
It was into this argument that one of the clerics brought Crouch.
‘Pardon me, Monsignor,’ said the cleric, ‘but I found this infernal creature behind our lines.’
‘And?’ said The Archivist. ‘What do you want me to do about it, Rodrigo? If he’s a spy, put him to the sword.’
‘Oh, I do hope that won’t be necessary,’ said Crouch, still squirming under the clerics’s grip. ‘As I was trying to explain to this gentleman, I am an envoy from His Most Chaotic Majesty the King of the Underworld, The Opposition.’
The Box of Demons Page 20
