John Connolly - The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

“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.”

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. 40Thus 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 received 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.”