John Connolly - The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

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.

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 competence. 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.