‘Get up,’ said The Seraph.
The dark blues and purples slowly faded, revealing the dull greens and muddy browns of a riverbank. In front of them was an old concentric castle, half ruined. The Seraph strode up the bank towards it.
‘Where are we?’ said Ben.
‘Rhuddlan Castle,’ said The Archivist. ‘The Box lay here for a time. This is the nearest sacred ground we could come to. Thanks to you, Llety’r Filiast is compromised.’
‘Yeah, I remember this place,’ said Kartofel. ‘We came here on a school trip. There was a bloke who showed us how they made swords. Hit himself in the face with a wooden one by accident. Great day out.’
‘Take us back or I’ll start walking,’ said Ben.
‘You cannot,’ said The Seraph. ‘The Castellan of the Veil is containing us in this place. Nothing can get in, and nothing can get out. All of this will soon be over, Ben, particularly if you cooperate.’
The Seraph led them up a gnarled misshapen path and into the castle. In the main courtyard there was a round hole in the floor covered by a heavy iron safety grate. It looked like it may once have been a well, or else some sort of medieval toilet. It certainly looked deep and dark enough.
The Triumph reached down and pulled the bars up with one hand. Pieces of masonry and sods of earth came away as he casually threw it behind him. The Castellan of the Veil stepped into the void, and gently glided down the shaft. Once she had landed safely, The Seraph followed.
The demons peered over the edge. It was so deep that the angel-light could barely be seen from the top.
‘I hope we’re not going down there,’ said Djinn. ‘It’s scary. And I don’t like the way it smells.’
‘I could do myself a serious injury with a fall like that,’ said Orff. ‘We don’t all have wings, you know.’
‘You do not have a choice,’ said The Archivist as he swung his legs over the hole. He dropped down the well quickly, leaving it to the last minute to unfurl his wings.
‘Looks like you need a lift,’ said The Triumph, wrapping a large arm around Ben’s waist and carrying him to the edge of the well.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Kartofel. ‘At least let us get in the Box first.’
The Triumph stepped forward, and they fell down the shaft, air whooshing through Ben’s hair as they rushed towards the floor. It was a little bit scary, but Ben never felt in danger: The Triumph was more graceful than his size suggested, and he controlled their fall superbly. The demons, however, did not have it so easy. The stretching began almost immediately, and the strangled noise it made – a mixture of the Box’s music and the demons’ screams – was like a key being slowly scraped down a guitar string.
They landed in a large round chamber with a domed ceiling, lit in campfire warmth by angel-light. The Triumph gently placed Ben on the muddy stone floor, and the demons sprang out of the Box.
‘There was no need for that,’ said Kartofel.
‘I think I might vomit,’ said Orff.
‘Quiet,’ said The Seraph. He moved to the centre of the room, directly underneath the tiny speck of daylight that was being cast into the chamber. He hunched down and placed his hand on the floor, a rectangle of fizzing orange light forming beneath his fingers. He pressed down, and the stone gave way, leaving a Box-shaped hole in the ground.
Once it was done, he moved to the edge of the chamber, and the rest of the Cult of the Four Winds did the same, positioning themselves so they formed a cross with the hole at the centre. Each then carved one of the symbols from the Box’s lid into the floor, and stood on it. The Seraph wiped the dirt from his hands and turned to face the room.
‘Everything is prepared. Ben, take the Box and place it in the recess.’
‘No,’ said Ben. ‘You brought me here when I didn’t want to come. You took me away from my family. From my mum’s grave. Why should I help you?’
The Archivist swooped forward and grabbed the back of Ben’s head, lacing his fingers through his hair and squeezing his skull. He forced Ben forward into the centre of the chamber, stripped the satchel from his back, and upturned it. The Box clattered on to the flagstones.
‘Do as you are bid,’ said The Archivist. Ben felt a chill grow in the back of his head. It was like his brain was being turned to ice, and The Archivist was intending to make a slush puppy out of it.
‘Ben!’ whimpered Djinn, swooping forward. The Seraph rose his arm and splayed his fingers. Djinn’s collar throbbed, and he froze. The Seraph turned his attention to Kartofel and Orff, lighting their collars and keeping them still.
Ben scrabbled for the Box, desperate to make the cold go away. Once he had his hand on it, The Archivist released him, and his head returned to normal.
‘I hate you,’ he said.
‘Once again, I am sorry for the methods we must employ,’ said The Seraph. ‘This will go easier if you cooperate. Place the Box in the recess.’
It slotted in easily, as if it had always sat there. It fit so perfectly that removing it would not be possible; the gaps between floor and Box were so minute that there was no space for fingers to lever it out.
‘Everything is prepared,’ said The Seraph. ‘Let us begin.’ He opened his arms wide, and raised them above his head. His wings extended to their full span, and he began to sing a note in a perfect clear baritone. One by one, the others joined him, each taking a different octave, from The Triumph’s rich bass to The Castellan of the Veil’s ringing soprano. Their auras shone as bright as ever, and as they each extended their wings the tips touched, sealing everyone in a giant ring of orange light.
It was one of the most beautiful things Ben had ever seen. A single tear ran down his cheek as the music of the Box harmonized with the angels’ rapturous soaring melodies. A thin green light started to creep out of the tiny crack between Box and floor, slowly pushing up towards the daylight like a budding flower.
As it grew, the music became more impatient, eager to have the light bursting out of it. There was a slight tremor in the earth, and when Ben looked down at the Box he saw that it was shaking, wriggling to be free of the hole, wanting its lid open. The more it struggled, the more violent the trembling ground became, until hairline cracks appeared all around the edges of the Box. Within seconds they had spread to cover the floor like ivy.
‘The moment is upon us,’ said The Seraph. ‘Let us have the first four Strident Blasts!’
The Archivist took the drawstring quiver from his back and carefully drew out a long silver trumpet. It reflected the light in the chamber, causing such a glare that Ben had to turn away. The Archivist raised the instrument to his lips, and blew a loud bass blast. The ground, and the Box, replied with a rumble of their own. The Archivist blew again, and again, each time matched by a heavier, more intense tremor than the last. As the fourth and final blast echoed around the chamber, The Seraph addressed the Cult in elated, breathless tones.
‘We have waited a long time for this day, my friends. Today, we launch a new Creation, one with the Prime One at its head. Today, He returns. Today, we use chaos to purge chaos, and so bring Everlasting Order!’
The light tore through the lid of the Box, shooting up the well shaft like a geyser and out into the sky above. Ben was thrown backwards into the wall, and moments later he felt the impact as the same thing happened to angel and demon alike. The demons’ collars exploded in a puff of fine powder, dirt and stone rained down from the ceiling, and the light expanded until it filled the chamber in a blinding flash.
Everything stopped, and the chamber was thrown into complete silence, and total darkness. Even the light of the angels was extinguished.
Groggily, Ben got to his feet. It was even quiet in his head. The music of the Box was gone, and he knew that this time it would not be coming back. As he stumbled over the intricate web of cracks, he heard the rustle of wings. The Seraph throbbed back into light, followed by each of the other angels until the chamber was once again lit by a warm glow.
There was a large smoking crater in the middle of the room, in the centre of which lay the charred remains of the Box. Four figures were gathered around it. The first was an old crone with wild grey hair and a stooped and twisted physique. She was bound up like a pharaoh, and insects swarmed all over her, burrowing in and out of her bandages. Next to her was a grotesquely fat bald man wearing nothing but a lionskin loincloth. He had a bloody sack slung around his shoulder, from which he produced a constant stream of food. Crumbs and splashes of gravy flew everywhere, splattering on the black-clad paper-white young woman with pale green hair nearby. She gave the fat man a deathly glare. He wiped his mouth and mumbled an apology.
The quartet was completed by a big man with bulging muscles. He wore a strange jumble of armour, and had a variety of weapons hanging from his waist. If there was any doubt as to who they were, it was dispelled by the fact that each was on horseback.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were free, and they did not look happy.
‘Angels,’ snarled Famine. ‘And demons, too.’
War drew a large curved sword. ‘You dare to imprison us? We who are so much more powerful than you? We who are infinite?’ He advanced on The Archivist, who shrank back, his arm outstretched in horror.
‘I have cancerssss and sssstrokesss and blightssssss bursssting to be releasssssed,’ said Pestilence, exhaling a wave of dead mouse breath that turned Djinn yellow. ‘Perhapssss I could have a demon or an angel to practisssss on?’
‘There are plenty to go round,’ said Death. ‘It has been so long since we were last sentient.’
‘I want to start with this one,’ said War, raising his blade to The Archivist.
‘Wait,’ said The Seraph. ‘My lords and ladies, please.’ He got down on his knees, and bowed his head.
‘You think kneeling will save you?’ laughed Death. She bunched her fist, and a black scythe grew out of it, glowing.
‘No, milady,’ said The Seraph. ‘We know this humble act cannot even begin to make amends. But we ask your forgiveness. We were led astray by The Adversary, who convinced us you needed to be stopped. We have rued that day, the last day of the Grand War, ever since. We wish to aid you in your work.’
‘What?’ said Ben.
‘We have released you because it is our wish that you are successful. The Grand War should have brought the Apocalypse. We should not have stopped you. We are sorry, and are now your humble servants.’
‘Excuse me, but I think Ben just said “what?”’ said Kartofel.
‘Silence, demon,’ said The Archivist.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Ben.
‘What we have been working towards for millennia,’ said The Seraph. ‘The Apocalypse.’
‘But . . . you said . . . Why?’
‘Do you know what the word “apocalypse” means, little ape?’ scoffed The Archivist.
‘Does it mean “all angels are idiots”?’ said Kartofel.
‘It means “the Coming of God”. The aeons we have spent waiting for Him are at an end. He will finally show himself, and purge the Creation of the sin of free will. There will be everlasting order, and all the infidels will be put to the sword.’
‘I like swords,’ said War. ‘And axes. I’m going to put something to the axe as well.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ said The Seraph. ‘We intend to present you with the greatest army ever assembled. You may do with them as you wish.’
‘You will not try to stop us?’ said Death.
‘No, milady,’ said The Seraph. ‘The opposite. We will aid your work in every way we can. This is our gift to you, my lords and ladies. Go forth and destroy.’
War chuckled. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Yesss,’ said Pestilence. ‘Oh, my lovely sssssicknesssss. All that perfect health out there, jusssst waiting to be corrupted.’
‘And all that hunger,’ said Famine. ‘And all that gluttony. I shall enjoy that, I shall.’
Famine pulled his reins, and his horse reared up with a terrible whinnying. Its heavy hoofs drummed down on the stone, and Famine geed it on, circling the chamber. As he passed Pestilence, she urged her horse to join him. War and Death soon followed, and all four became a blur, a macabre carousel, racing round and round until there was a whoosh of air, and they were gone.
‘We’ve won,’ said The Triumph. ‘We’ve won! The Apocalypse is here!’
‘Not quite, brother,’ said The Seraph. His lips were set in a sly smile. ‘We are close, but there is still much to do. For one, you still have an army to raise. Let us leave this place, and make the necessary preparations. Sister?’
The Castellan of the Veil turned to face the wall, and laid her hands on the bricks. The stone shimmered, and The Triumph charged towards it. He dived into it headfirst, passing through as if it were a hologram.
‘What about us?’ said Ben. ‘You can’t leave us down here.’
‘What would be the point of removing you?’ said The Archivist. ‘This world is ending. It is all one to us where you die.’
‘Please try to understand, Ben,’ said The Seraph. ‘It was inevitable that this should occur, for it was written, prophesied by the Box itself. If it is any consolation, your name will be writ large in the new Creation. We could not have achieved this without you.’
‘But I don’t want it,’ said Ben.
The Seraph shrugged. ‘Then this is the right place for you.’ He beat his wings, hovering momentarily, before plunging into the wall. One by one the others followed, leaving little ripples in the rock as they became submerged. Once they were gone, the disturbance in the wall subsided, and it became still, like it had never been anything other than cold hard stone.