‘You misunderstand, my lady,’ said the angel. ‘We are here to do the Prime One’s work, and to recruit the righteous into his army. It is vital to the Apocalypse.’
‘I refuse permission,’ said Death.
The angel sighed. ‘Then, my lady, we do not seek it. Brother?’
The largest of the group rose into the sky and addressed the mists, letting his voice ring out for all to hear. ‘Comrades! The Prime One has had many forms. Most of you know Him, even if you don’t know that name. He is Odin, and he is Zeus. He is Pangu, and Coatlicue. He is Mbombo. He is a God of many names, and a God of many parts. Those of you who were zealous, and true to Him in life, you martyrs, you brave men and women the heathen dared call extremists: your reward is coming. We will resurrect you. You will live again, incorruptible and undefiled!’
A muttering spread through the mists. There were little pockets of chanted prayers and religious slogans, but mostly the mood was one of discontent and doubt.
‘What about the rest of us?’ shouted a mist. ‘What if you wasn’t zealous, but still believed?’
‘Yeah,’ said another. ‘What happens to people who went to temple nearly every week, but missed some weeks due to other commitments?’
‘I donated some clothes to the Salvation Army once,’ said one.
‘I used to listen to Thought for the Day religiously.’
‘I was an agnostic in life, but now you’ve turned up I feel a bit of a wally. What about me?’
‘The Prime One is still your Creator, and He loves you,’ said the big angel, and the mists fell silent once more. ‘But there is no place in the new Creation for naysayers. Those of you were atheists, agnostics, heathens, idolaters, infidels: you will remain mists, to suffer this world for eternity. But those of you who believed in any of His aspects, knew Him by any of His names, you will be forgiven your little lapses, provided you join us. We will remove all doubt, we will fill you with zealous fire, and you will live again! Cast off the shackles of Death! Rise, and be resurrected!’
He drew his sword, and thrust it high in the air. The blade burst into flames. ‘What say you?’
A cheer rose, one more deafening than any crowd had ever made before. The scrawny angel took the quiver from his back, produced a silver trumpet, and raised it to his lips.
‘Stop!’ yelled Death. Her voice passed through every mist in the Afterworld, bringing them to perfect stillness. The fog hung in the air, frozen in position. ‘Do you think you can take what is mine so easily? I control these mists. I say where they go and what they do. I am Death, of the Four Horsemen. Who are you, who are so arrogant?’
‘This is not arrogance,’ hissed the scrawny angel. ‘It is righteousness.’
‘The others shall hear of this,’ said Death. ‘Then let us see what becomes of your apocalypse.’
‘My lady, they have already heard,’ said the angel with the deformed hand. ‘As I said, we have come here to help.’
There was a wave of movement through the suspended mists, a rolling white froth, like spray on an incoming tide. Frozen mists were thrown into the air and then fell back down again, and the sound of horses’ hoofs heralded the coming of the other Horsemen. They entered the clearing and dismounted.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Death. ‘You know of this insolence?’
‘We are part of it,’ said War. ‘The last battle is coming, and we will be at the head of it. It will be the ultimate war, and I have been promised the ultimate army to fight it.’
‘But these are mine,’ said Death.
‘And who gave them to you? Who delivered them, but sickness, and conflict, and greed? They are as much ours as yours, and we want to fight.’
‘Then I will stand against you.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said War, drawing two large cannons from holsters on his belt. Death felt her scythe grow in her hand, and immediately moved into a fighting stance.
Pestilence’s jaw fell open, and she emitted a horrible screech. Death twisted to avoid the plague that streamed out, and at the same time swung the scythe in Famine’s direction, striking him in the knees. The glutton folded, and fell. Death ran towards him, and leaped up, forcing his head down to the floor, using his body as a platform from which to strike at War, who fired both barrels. Death dodged the first, but the second cannonball grazed her shoulder and threw her off balance. She toppled from Famine’s back, and landed face down. Seconds later she felt the weight of War’s boot on the back of her neck, then the clutch of Famine and Pestilence on her wrists and ankles.
‘You should leave the fighting to me,’ said War. He turned to the angels. ‘Are you going to blow this horn or not?’
‘With pleasure,’ said the scrawny one. He blew hard into his trumpet, and a single note rang out. It sustained for a few minutes, and then died out. An eerie silence filled the valley.
And then the cries started.
At first Death thought they were cries of pain: all around, unfrozen mists began to writhe and struggle, but in their contorted faces she saw only joy. Those affected were becoming more defined, more individual, until they could be clearly distinguished from those who were not. Nearby, a young girl was sculpted out of the fog. Red flesh sprouted all over her body, and she became completely solid. New hair and skin formed over it, followed by the stiff black fabric of her clothing. Her new eyes flicked open, but they were not the same eyes she had in life. They were milky grey swirls, tiny galaxies set in bloodshot space. She moved her head round, as if trying to see.
Death wriggled beneath War’s boot, trying to get up. She pulled her arms, hoping to break free of Pestilence and Famine, but both held fast.
She yelled another polyphonic command to her subjects, but only the unchanged mists froze. The fleshy horde continued to stumble around in blinded confusion and wonder, arms outstretched.
‘They are eternal now,’ said the angel with the deformed hand. ‘They are neither living nor dead, and so your powers will no longer work. They serve a higher power.’
War lifted his foot, and took a step back. Famine and Pestilence let go, and Death leaped to her feet. ‘You’ve blinded them.’
‘They do not need to see,’ said the scrawny angel. ‘We have given them unwavering, certain faith. See how they are ready for war!’
The army pressed forward, and Death found herself in the middle of a seething mass of flesh and prayers. All rational thought had been taken from them, and even the most gentle and moderate believer in the most obscure deity had been transformed into a zealous fanatic. The odour of rotting meat was all-pervading. There were too many bodies for the valley to hold, and Death was soon overwhelmed, drowning – or at least what she imagined drowning was like, having only ever been present for the end before – in a sea of mouldy cadavers. She was pulled to the ground, and the horde trampled over her.
The hooded angel started to screech at the top of her voice, repeating the same unintelligible phrase over and over again until there was a deafening boom and the army, the Horsemen, and the angels disappeared.
Death rolled on to her back. There were hardly any mists left at all, and those who remained were spread thin across the vastness of her once-full valley. Her crown lay crumpled by her side, and there on the stony ground she understood the desperation of the dead: she knew what it meant to be powerless.
The demons and their steeds had caught up to Ben and Druss just as they reached the Veil, and so they all crossed into the Afterworld together. Even at the very top of the ridge, where the mists had been the thinnest, there was a marked difference in the amount of fog, and it didn’t get any thicker as they rode into the valley.
What was left parted at the bottom to reveal the figure of Death hunched over, sitting on the ground. Her clothes were torn, and her china-white face was splattered with mud. She raised her head as they approached, and then sneered when she recognized them.
‘Have you come to gloat?’ she said.
‘No,’ said
Ben. ‘We’re on our way to stop the angels from tearing down the Veil and destroying the Worlds.’
‘We may not have come to gloat,’ said Orff. ‘But can’t we take the opportunity now that it’s presented itself?
‘Orff!’ said Ben.
‘Well, I’m sorry Ben, but last time we were here she was very inhospitable. That terrible lizard had no idea of passenger comfort. It’s played havoc with my hips.’
‘Perhaps we could gloat a little?’ said Djinn.
‘Nobody’s doing any gloating, OK?’ He turned back to Death. ‘What happened?’
‘The others,’ said Death. ‘They came with the angels and turned my mists into these horrible blinded creatures, half dead and half living. I had no dominion over them. They trampled me. I felt what I think might be called pain.’
Kartofel sniggered. Ben shot him a look.
‘Still now I feel it, not just in my body but in my head as well. I do not feel myself, and everything seems to be darkness.’
‘It sounds like we feel after the light,’ said Djinn. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘No, it is not,’ said Death. ‘And now all I want to do is sit here.’ She threw her crumpled crown across the valley, wincing as she did.
‘Can you stand?’ said Ben, offering his hand. Death frowned at it.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to stop the angels. We could use your help.’
She took it, and pulled herself up. As she did he shivered, though he tried to hide it. ‘How many mists have you got left?’
‘I don’t know. A few hundred thousand, maybe. A lot of atheists and agnostics. A few druids, some heathens. A lot of angry ex-nuns who were forced into convents.’
‘Nuns?’ said Kartofel.
‘Ex-nuns,’ said Death. ‘And since they did nothing but fight their entire lives, you should be glad they’re on your side.’
‘Good,’ said Ben. ‘If we can’t stop the angels, the Afterworld will need to be ready.’
‘What for?’ said Death.
‘War.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Coming of God
They crept up to the well in Rhuddlan Castle in silence, which was quite impressive for a party that included a giant rabbit and a feral unicorn. They needn’t have bothered: the sound of the angels’ voices echoed up the shaft, drowning out any noise they made.
‘. . . the Zealous Army of Martyrs?’
‘Billeted in the Veil. Their numbers grow with every death.’
‘Excellent. And the Horsemen?’
‘War has assumed command, and is preparing for battle.’
‘Then I see no reason for delay.’
‘How are we gonna get in?’ whispered Kartofel. ‘It’s not like we’ve brought a ladder. Jabba’s bird isn’t going to fit down the hole, and I’ll bet the bunny’s too fat for it too.’
Druss snorted, and a gust of air blew through Kartofel’s flames, knocking him off Talullah. Ben stifled a laugh.
‘We’ll have to leave the animals here, that’s for sure. Maybe Djinn . . .’
A trumpet rang out. The skies darkened, the earth shook beneath their feet, and what was left of the castle walls began to crumble. There was a horrible screeching noise, like the world was being ripped apart, and meteors appeared in the sky, hurtling towards Earth.
‘The Sixth Strident Blast!’ said Ben.
A massive crack opened up in the ground, and the ceiling of the chamber stared to collapse beneath their feet. Loose earth cascaded into the hole like a waterfall, and they had little choice but to sink with it.
‘I guess that answers the question of how we get down,’ said Kartofel.
The trumpet died out, the tremor came to a stop, and the chamber beneath Rhuddlan Castle was no more, mostly because Rhuddlan Castle was no more. In its place was a massive earthen bowl, the burned-out Box at its centre. The Seraph smiled.
‘We wondered what had happened to you,’ he said. ‘We expected to find corpses.’
‘We know everything,’ said Ben.
‘I doubt that,’ said The Seraph. ‘Only the Prime One is all-knowing. But I assume from the colourful steeds you have acquired that you met The Adversary, and he told you of the travesty that ended the Grand War. Much good may it do you. The Sixth Blast has been blown. Natural disasters are striking the globe. Soon all life will be wiped out, and the Prime One’s army will be unstoppable. And once we blow the Seventh Blast, He will return to lead them.’
‘Not if we can help it,’ said Djinn, doing an admirable impression of bravery.
‘Really? Three worn-out demons and a teenage boy, so easy to defeat that all it takes is a flick of my wrist?’ The Seraph thrust his hand out in front of him, his fingers popping and fizzing with amber light.
Djinn winced. When nothing happened, he slowly opened one eye, and then another. He looked at the other demons, and saw that they weren’t suffering either. Kartofel scuttled over to The Seraph.
‘Is that supposed to be doing something?’
The Seraph snarled, an intense expression of hatred on his face. He moved his hand so that it was directed at Kartofel alone, but still nothing happened.
‘Nah, it’s not working,’ said Kartofel, turning to the others. ‘It’s not working.’
The Seraph growled, and lunged forward. He raised Kartofel into the air with both hands, and started to squeeze his palms together.
‘You may have found a way to deflect our powers, demon,’ said The Seraph, his face tense with the strain. ‘But you are not immune to pain.’
Kartofel yowled. His flame flared up, growing until it was as tall and wide as The Seraph, who staggered back in shock. Kartofel shunted his head forward, and The Seraph was immediately consumed by fire. He dropped Kartofel, and then threw himself on the floor, rolling around to put the flames out.
‘That is so cool,’ said Kartofel. ‘I am even more awesome than I first thought.’
Across the room, The Castellan of the Veil threw a punch at Djinn. As if by instinct, his gassy body separated to allow her fist through, then closed up around it, sealing it inside. With a look of determination on his face and a totally unnecessary arm gesture that would have made Superman proud, he wisped upward, dragging the angel with him.
At the same time, The Triumph charged towards Orff. Startled, he raised his arms and Legion dived in front of him, transforming into a snarling purple bear as he did. Orff took a step forward, and so did Legion. They lunged for The Triumph, who dug his feet in, refusing to be pushed back. They grappled, The Triumph wincing as Legion roared filthy contagious breath in his face until his legs buckled, and he was forced to his knees.
In the confusion, Ben ran for The Archivist, who had been viewing the attacks with a look of horror. Ben wrapped his whole body around the trumpet, hoping that gravity would help him pull it from The Archivist’s hand, but as he dangled there, something impacted hard into his side, and he fell awkwardly, skidding across the floor. Suddenly the sky was alive with colour, and The Triumph, The Seraph and The Archivist were all shielding their eyes.
A black robe lay on the floor directly underneath Djinn. The Castellan of the Veil glided down from the ceiling, naked. Unlike the other angels, her skin was not midnight black but diamond, and she refracted tiny spears of rainbow light as if she were a prism. Ben could not move, and it appeared the demons were similarly afflicted, skewered to the spot by the light.
She spoke. It was the first time Ben had heard a human language from her. Her voice was pure, and clear, and high enough to shatter glass.
‘I am the Castellan of the Veil, Majestic Herald of the End Times, Usher of the New Kingdom, Bailiff of the Court of the Celestium Majora, Harbinger of the Apocalypse, Speaker of the Celestial Parliament, Duchess of the Heavenly Host, Most Reverend Bride of the Prime One and the Ultimate Oblate of the Cult of the Four Winds. And I say: “Enough!” ’
‘Yes!’ cried The Seraph. ‘Yes! Brother, sound the Seventh Blast! Behold the Prime One!�
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The Archivist strode over to Ben, and easily slid the trumpet out of his paralysed grip. He blew forcefully into the mouthpiece, and a fanfare echoed around the crater, repeating over and over, as if it would sound for all time.
Once The Archivist’s breath was exhausted, and the last of it passed through the trumpet, it split, and it was discarded it as if it were scrap. The fanfare, with its perpetual echo, was now the only sound. The constant repetition made it far from triumphant, and it took on a taunting tone. The angels looked to one another. Every second brought more hope and less expectation.
‘Where is He?’ said The Triumph. ‘Why hasn’t He come?’
‘I don’t know,’ said The Seraph, turning to The Archivist. ‘Brother, you must have done something wrong.’
‘I have trained every day since the end of the Grand War for this task,’ said The Archivist. ‘If there is a fault here, I think we all know where it lies.’
‘I don’t care for your tone,’ said The Seraph.
‘I have never cared for yours. All this time, you have pushed us into your plans, had us to pander to children. And what is the great revelation the sacrifices you have asked of us has brought? That the Prime One is not coming.’
‘Is this true?’ said The Triumph. The Seraph looked worried.
‘Of course it is true,’ said The Archivist. ‘Of course He is not coming. All eternity, with no word from Him? He abandoned us long ago.’
‘Recant that,’ said The Seraph, his voice rising as he spoke.
‘You are a fool,’ said The Archivist. ‘You are not worthy of the name angel.’
The Seraph sprang at him, his good hand balled into a fist. The Archivist sidestepped, then quickly turned to attack. The Seraph levered him over his shoulder, and they brawled messily on the floor.
‘Wait!’ said The Castellan of the Veil. ‘I can feel something.’
‘What is it, sister?’ said The Seraph hopefully. ‘Is it the Prime One?’
‘No.’ Her body juddered, and she let out an ecstatic moan. ‘The Veil is cracking. Tiny hairline fractures, but I can feel every one. Oh! The End Times are upon us! The Veil will fall!’
The Box of Demons Page 18