“She hates Old Ram,” he whispered to himself. “She thinks Old Ram is worthless, but Old Ram is not. Old Ram was great once, and Old Ram could be great again, but none will give Old Ram the chance that Old Ram deserves. Poor Old Ram! Poor forsaken Old Ram!”
So caught up was he in bitterness that he failed to notice the winged horse alight before him, and the flight of demons that quietly descended behind him. It was only when the horse blew a bad-tempered blast of air through its nostrils in warning that Old Ram looked up to find Duke Abigor staring down at him.
“You are far from home, Old Ram,” said Abigor. “Were you not banished, and forbidden to leave the precincts of the forest?”
“I was, my lord, but Mrs. Abernathy freed me.”
“Did she, now? And why would she do that?”
Old Ram, mindful of Mrs. Abernathy’s injunction to remain silent about the circumstances of his freedom, said nothing, but Duke Abigor was as clever as he was ruthless. He knew much about Old Ram, and was aware that, like so many who had found themselves damned to the Infernal Regions, his vanity was his weakness. Were Abigor to threaten him, or torture him, Old Ram might simply endure his sufferings with clenched teeth, if only to prove to Abigor that, humbled though he might be, Old Ram had his pride. No, there were easier ways to deal with Old Ram.
“Well, no matter,” said Abigor airily. “It strikes me only that you don’t sound very pleased, even though your long period of exile has come to an end. Surely such generosity of spirit, such magnanimity, on the part of Mrs. Abernathy merits a greater show of gratitude?”
He watched Old Ram twist and writhe, a pantomime of hurt, and envy, and loathing.
“Gratitude.” Old Ram spat the word. “For what? It cost her nothing, and left Old Ram with nothing. Old Ram tried to help her. It’s not Old Ram’s fault that-”
Old Ram stopped talking. Mrs. Abernathy had warned him not to speak of the boy, but she wasn’t here. Duke Abigor was here, though, and Old Ram wondered why that might be. Abigor’s presence, thought Old Ram, might be used to some advantage.
“Go on,” said Abigor. “I’m listening.”
“Old Ram has been alone for a long time, my lord,” said Old Ram carefully. “Old Ram seeks a master. Old Ram would be a good servant.”
“I already have more servants than I need. You would have to offer me something that no one else can.”
Old Ram’s yellow eyes narrowed with cunning.
“Mrs. Abernathy made Old Ram promise not to tell, but it may be that Old Ram was wrong to make that promise.”
“Promises are made to be broken,” said Abigor. “Particularly promises made in the face of a threat.”
“Old Ram has no duty of loyalty to Mrs. Abernathy.”
“No, he does not. After all, what fealty do you owe to the one who banished you? The greater fault is hers, not yours. So, what can you offer to prove your loyalty to me?”
“I can offer you news,” said Old Ram, “news of a human child.”
Mrs. Abernathy’s basilisk reached the edge of the Void just behind the Watcher, and she quickly turned her mount’s head away from the emptiness so that neither of them looked upon it for too long. Even the Watcher kept its head down as it examined the tracks upon the ground. Its words echoed in her head, for she could hear its thoughts.
It is the boy and his dog. They were here. Others came and took them away.
“Others?” demanded Mrs. Abernathy. “What others?”
The Watcher sniffed the ground.
Nurd. And humans. Seven humans.
“Can you track them?”
The Watcher stared out over the stony ground, finding the places in which the stones had been disturbed, distinguishing the marks of wheeled vehicles.
Yes, but they travel fast.
“Then we will travel faster.”
She moved on, not even checking to make sure that the Watcher was following, and so she did not see it pause, its red brow furrowing. All of this was wrong, thought the Watcher. It has all spiraled out of control. My master is mad, and my mistress may be madder still. Something must be done. The bells have been silent for too long. Perhaps the time is coming when they must peal again…
Old Ram’s tongue, once loosened, unburdened itself of all its secrets. He told Duke Abigor of the boy, and the attack by the Great Oak, and Mrs. Abernathy’s appearance in the forest. He told Abigor of how he had seen the boy hide, and the direction in which he must have walked. As he spoke, he saw Abigor’s face darken in anger.
“The Blacksmith lied,” said Abigor. “He must have seen the boy, but he would not speak of it.”
He turned to one of his demons, who had only just alighted, and ordered it to retrieve the remaining pieces of the Blacksmith, that he might punish him further. He asked first for the Blacksmith’s severed hands, that he might crush them so the Blacksmith could never use them again, but the sack containing the Blacksmith’s hands was empty. A second demon, who had recently been patrolling the skies for signs of the boy, approached warily and told Abigor that the Blacksmith had disappeared, for it had passed over the crater of weapons and detected no sign of him. Furthermore, it said that there had been a peculiar smell in the air: the smell of virtue, of decency, of humanity. The Blacksmith, in the demon’s opinion, was gone forever. His soul was no longer in Hell.
Abigor stifled his rage. He had always sensed a fault in the Blacksmith, some residue of hope and decency that should have been snuffed out long before, but he could never have imagined that it would be enough to redeem him. The Blacksmith had not merely been a soul filled with regret, he was a soul who had genuinely repented, even with no prospect that it might end his sufferings, for he must surely have believed that he was damned to Hell for eternity. But repentance would not have been enough: a sacrifice would have been required. The boy, Samuel Johnson, had saved the Blacksmith by allowing the maker of weapons to offer himself up on behalf of another, one worthy of the gesture. Samuel Johnson was a Good Soul, for only such a soul could survive in this place; survive, and provide sustenance to the soul of another. The boy was dangerous, more so than even Mrs. Abernathy realized. His presence in Hell was a pollutant. He had to be locked away, hidden from sight. He could not be killed: a mortal could not die in Hell. Nothing could. It was a place of endless torment, and endless torment required the absence of death.
A shadow passed over him, and another of his demons alighted by his side. It announced that it had followed two moving carts as they had passed into the stony place that led to the Void, and there it had watched as the boy and his pet were gathered into safety. It had stayed with them until it was sure of the direction that they were taking, before returning to inform its master.
“Quickly!” cried Abigor. “Rise up, rise up! Apprehend the boy and bring him to me.”
The demons took flight like crows from the noise of a gun. Duke Abigor was about to follow them into the sky when Old Ram tugged at his horse’s reins.
“What about Old Ram?” he said. “Old Ram told you all. What about Old Ram’s reward?”
Duke Abigor’s horse reared up, and one of its hooves struck Old Ram a blow to the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“How can I trust a pitiful creature who would break a promise, and betray one master for another?” said Duke Abigor. “There is only one reward for a traitor.”
He raised a clawed finger, and Old Ram’s world went black for a time. When he awoke he was trapped in ice, with only his horned head above the surface of the great frozen Lake of Cocytus that extended as far as the eye could see, the icy whiteness of it broken only by others like himself: traitors all, betrayers of family and friends, of lords and masters.