Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

Joey’s hand descended gently on his shoulder and drew him to one side. Half a second later, Billy Butler hit the ground where he’d been standing and made a crater four feet deep. “Thank you, Joey,” said Cabal.

They looked into the hole at the mangled corpse. “At least we won’t have to bury him,” commented Joey. “I’ll just kick some earth in there on him, shall I?”

“No,” said Cabal dryly.

“Not deep enough? I’ll find a spade.”

“Not deep enough. Not by a very long way.” He crossed his arms and looked down on the body with cold disdain. “How deep is Hell, anyway?”

There was a long pause. Then Butler’s head creaked round a hundred and eighty degrees. “How did you guess?” he croaked through his twisted and broken windpipe.

“A little too theatrical to be convincing. That is you, isn’t it, Ragtag?”

“Ratuth,” said the corpse peevishly. The head twisted around again, popping and snapping as it went. Then it extended awkwardly, the vertebrae tearing a slot at the back of the jacket collar.

Joey took a surprised step back. “Oh! I say …”

The tear was soon joined by more and more as the thing that had once been Billy Butler erupted into a mess of hands, claws, and writhing thorned tentacles. Non-Euclidean angles sprang up vertically like the scaffolding for the Tower of Babel. At their head, a horse’s skull topped with a stylised Greek helmet was squeezed out from the gaps between realities. “General Slabuth to you , Johannes Cabal,” finished the demon, jaw clattering.

“Whose brilliant idea was this?” asked Cabal.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This half-witted attempt to make me lose the wager. Whose idea was it?”

“‘ Half-witted’ is a little harsh, I think.”

“Whose,” repeated Cabal, firmly enunciating, “idea?”

“Ah, sort of a committee thing, actually. You see — ”

“Yours, then.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. “Yes,” said Ratuth Slabuth finally.

“And what does your master think of this?”

“What? Cheating? He thinks it’s a frightfully good wheeze as a rule.”

“Well, tell him it won’t do. No more interference or the whole deal’s off.”

“Ah, you can’t back out as easily as all that.”

“Why not? We didn’t sign anything. We didn’t even shake hands.”

Slabuth managed to purse his lips despite not having any. “It’s not in the spirit of the thing.”

Cabal laughed derisively. “No more interference, understand? Come along, Mr. Granite.” He turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the Cabal Carnival.

Joey paused long enough to say, “Nice to meet you. Sorry, must rush,” and rushed.

Ratuth Slabuth watched them go. Then he ignored the earth beneath his feet and plunged into the fiery pit of Hell.

He found Satan on his throne in the cavern of lava, reading a large-print edition of Wheatley’s The Satanist.

“It’s a rum way to warn people off from worshipping me,” Satan commented, indicating the book. “It seems to be lots of fun, according to this. Still, I bet they all die horribly at the end. Oh well. Who wants to live forever?”

“Most of them,” said General Slabuth.

Satan slammed the book shut and it vanished. “So — how was it? Being human?”

“Cramped. I’d really rather it were later than sooner before I do that again.”

“And Cabal?”

“Surprisingly slow to catch on. Still, I managed to wreck about a fifth of his carnival before the penny dropped.”

“A fifth? Well done.”

“He’ll recover, unfortunately. Especially with the help of that brother of his.”

“Yes. Horst Cabal’s involvement was unexpected. Not to worry, it’s done what I wanted. We shan’t interfere further. At least, not for the time being.”

There was a pause, during which Slabuth hovered awkwardly. Finally, he said, “Lord Satan. May I ask a question?”

“Yes?”

“This whole business has troubled me from the start. While I can see the potential gains to be made by letting Cabal run around doing his best to gather souls, I still don’t understand why you gave him the carnival to help him. From our past experiences, we know them to be powerful corruptors within fairly broad parameters. Giving one to Cabal is tantamount to conceding the wager from the beginning.”

“And your question is?”

“Might I ask what all this was in aid of?”

Satan smiled sweetly. “No. You may not. Tactics are your concern, Ratuth Slabuth. The grand strategy is mine. You may go.”

Slabuth started to say something, but thought better of it. Trying hard to avoid feeling menial, he went.

Satan waited until he was alone. He glanced around briefly. If it were possible for the embodiment of sin to look guilty rather than pleased about it, he could definitely have been described as slightly ashamed. Satisfied that there was nobody about to observe his actions, Satan clicked his fingers. A dog-eared old school exercise book, the sort with squared paper, materialised in his hand. He opened it to a graph entitled, in his neat hand, “Cabal’s Performance.” The zigzagging line crossed the hundred-souls mark about a fortnight before the deadline. Satan weighed up the setbacks Cabal had suffered over the last few days, smiled, and erased the latter part of the line. Carefully, he put in a revised estimate: now it indicated a hundred souls with barely a day to spare.

“There, Johannes,” said Satan. “That should put a little more excitement into your life.”

Here follows a list of the escapees from Laidstone’s “E” Wing, the maximum-security section. All the escaped convicts were incarcerated for the most serious crimes, and all are to be approached with caution. Appendix A contains photographs and physical descriptions.

*Aleister Gage Baker — “The Beast of Barnwick.” Believed largely harmless without his Beast costume, which remains in evidence.

*Talbot Saint John Barnaby — “The Pub Poisoner.” Former landlord. All officers should avoid gratis refreshment at public houses until Barnaby is back in custody.

*Leslie Coleridge — “The Part-Time Children’s Entertainer of Death.” Approach with caution. If Coleridge offers to make a sausage dog out of balloons, call for immediate assistance.

*Thomas Nashton Cream — “The Incompetent Killer.” Attempted murders, one. Actual deaths, twenty-seven, all unintentional. Intended victim escaped unscathed.

*Frederick Gallagher — “The Brides in the Inflammable Electrified Acid Bath Murderer.” Limited threat. Kills only for insurance money. Is prone to overplanning.

*Henry George Hetherbridge — “The Cotton-Reel Killer.” Murdered his wife, uncle, solicitor, and grocer before questions were raised about the likelihood of four cotton-reel-related accidental deaths in a six-week period.

*Gideon Gabriel Lucas — “The Bible Basher.” Only dangerous to individuals with the surname Bible.

*Palmer Mallows — “The Soft-Shoe Strangler.” Officers are warned to beware any impromptu dancing.

*Joseph Grant Osborne — “The Unnecessarily Rude Poisoner.” Of limited threat, but officers should take nothing he says personally.

*Alvin Simpson — File missing. Assumed dangerous, probably.

*Daniel Smike — “The Crying Death.” Officers should not refrain from using their truncheons while subduing Smike, no matter how tearful he becomes.