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!’
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!’
‘Do you see what you’ve done?’ said Ben. ‘You have to stop it.’
The Seraph’s face dropped. The Prime One was not coming. He had brought about the end of Creation. He shook his head. ‘It cannot be stopped. The Worlds are ending. If the Veil is cracking . . . the Prime . . . it cannot be stopped.’
‘Why would you want it stopped?’ said The Archivist. ‘The plan has not changed. The Prime One may not be here, but there is no reason we cannot seize Creation in his name. This is our chance. We will march on Hell, crush The Adversary, and remake the Creation. A new angelic age will begin!’
‘No,’ said The Seraph. ‘Enough.’
‘I have had enough of you telling me “enough”, Brother.’ The Archivist lunged for the warped shell of the Box, wrenching it up from the floor. Smoke rose from his palms, and he cried out in pain and effort. He twisted his upper body and slammed the Box into the side of The Seraph’s head. It slid through like boiling water over snow.
The Seraph’s headless body juddered for a moment, then exploded in a blinding orange flash.
The Archivist threw the Box on the floor, and turned to the other angels. ‘What say you?’
‘The Angelic Age,’ said The Castellan of the Veil.
The Triumph stared at the spot that was so recently The Seraph.
‘Brother?’
The Triumph nodded dumbly.
‘Good,’ said The Archivist. ‘Now for Armageddon.’
The Castellan of the Veil picked up her cloak and wrapped it around herself. The last of the rainbow javelins shot through Ben, but before he could move again The Castellan of the Veil had spoken, and the Cult of the Winds were gone.