‘Ha,’ said The Archivist, ‘is he surrendering already?’
‘No, sir, he is not.’
‘Then I don’t see what he needs to send an envoy for. Dispose of him, Rodrigo.’
‘Monsignor.’
‘Please,’ said Crouch hurriedly, ‘I have been sent to deliver the terms of engagement, and to settle the articles of war.’
‘I don’t think we’ll be needing them,’ sneered The Archivist. ‘Erase him.’
The cleric tightened his grip on Crouch’s neck and, holding him at arm’s length, made to leave.
‘No,’ said War. ‘We’re going to do this properly. I’m not having anyone saying I cheated afterwards, all right? We settle the rules of engagement. Put him down.’
Rodrigo looked from War to The Archivist. The angel nodded, and Rodrigo dropped Crouch on the floor.
‘Give us your terms,’ said War.
Crouch cleared his throat. ‘In the first instance, His Most Chaotic Majesty wishes it known that he has ceded control of all the Infernal Armies to Sir Benjamin Gabriel Robson, who will conduct this campaign on his behalf. Also, Lady Death has ceded her armies to the same gentleman.’
‘Stupid cow,’ muttered War. ‘Fine. Tell them that I conduct this campaign on behalf of . . .’ He turned to The Archivist. ‘What are you called again?’
‘The Archivist of the End Times, Veteran of the Trumpet of Seals, Prime Oblate of the Cult of the Winds, Celestial Lord of the Skies,’ said The Archivist.
‘Just say “The Archivist”,’ said War. ‘What else?’
‘In the second instance, Sir Ben would like to decide this battle in a more ordered manner.’
War grunted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He would like to issue a challenge. He has erected a tent in No Demon’s Land, and wishes to finish this battle on the tabletop, using the current edition of the Warmonger rulebook.’
‘No,’ said The Archivist, ‘absolutely not.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Crouch, ‘but I thought that Lord War was conducting this campaign. Perhaps I should be presenting our terms to you, instead?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said War. ‘Tell him that it’s a tempting offer, but one I’ll pass on. I’m having far too much fun flinging undead soldiers at him to bother with action figures and bits of paper.’
Crouch bowed his head. ‘Lady Death advised as much, sir. She said that in the unlikely event the angels let you, you would probably shy away from it. She said to say that you were fine at bashing people around the head, not so good at using your own.’
‘What?’ said War. ‘What? The cheeky – doesn’t she remember all those great classics? The Thirty Years War? The Hundred Years War? World War Two, the greatest sequel ever made? I can’t believe she thinks a little boy can beat War in a war game.’
‘Forgive me, m’lord,’ said Crouch, ‘but Lady Death suggested that your best work was behind you, and that gone were the days when a strategic victory was a thing of pride. She said you prefer the “cannon fodder” approach nowadays. She said to mention the Somme.’
‘‘That was the first attempt at a World War. It doesn’t count.’
‘My lord, surely you are not considering taking up this ridiculous challenge—’ began The Archivist.
The Horseman roared in response. ‘Why? Don’t you think I’ll win? I’m War. I always win. Tell this “Ben” that we accept his challenge. I’ll show him a thing or two.’
‘Lord War, please—’
‘Are you saying I don’t know how to beat a teenage boy?’
‘Of course not, my lord,’ said The Archivist.
‘Then that settles it. Someone fling this little cur back over to their side. Tell your master that we will meet him at his tent, and that he can look forward to being instructed in the Art of War.’
Little cur, thought Crouch. If that hadn’t gone so well, I would be rather insulted.
And so the major players in the Apocalypse gathered together around a scale model of the terrain that lay between the gates of Pandemonium and the far edge of the Valley of Death. Miniatures depicting the two armies had been set out exactly as they were on the battlefield, the ordered rows hardly doing justice to the bloody brawl that was taking place around them.
Ben stood before the game board, dice in hand. At the opposite end, War sat sprawled in a throne made of skulls, licking his lips in anticipation. Behind him stood the angels, and beyond them Famine and Pestilence were lazily sprawled out on giant sequinned cushions.
So this is the way the world ends, thought Ben. Not with a bang, or a whimper, but with the roll of the dice. He cupped his hands and rattled them around before throwing them out on to the little silver tray.
Amongst the jumble of dice, in a neat little row, were three sixes.
The battle of Armageddon had begun.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The End Times
Armageddon turned out to be something of an anticlimax. This was because although War was the living embodiment of every conflict in history, he had not grown up studying the Warmonger rulebook.
The moment Ben pushed his first regiment into position on the board, the indiscriminate brawling at the edge of the Veil stopped, and a sort of psychic ripple passed through the ranks of the Afterworld army. Demon and mist alike suddenly (and quite inexplicably to them) became well-drilled soldiers. They moved with purpose through the Martyrs’ ranks, and for a moment even succeeded in pushing them back. Old ladies armed with tuning forks and china plates felled rampaging Vikings, and a gaggle of poets armed only with their quills took out a number of swordsmen. However, the same discipline was instilled in their opponents once War had taken his turn, and the scrappy carnage became a proper battle.
They traded blows equally through the first few turns, and ground gained was lost a roll later. But Ben was soon using his experience to employ a strategy of divide and conquer, cutting off large swathes of War’s forces and then overwhelming them with ease.
There was a final roll, a brief skirmish, and the last of War’s regiments were removed from the board. The result had been beyond doubt for some time, but War had insisted on fighting down to the last figure. He took his first defeat with uncharacteristic good grace, in that he only smashed his own chair into toothpicks and didn’t upend the table. He cut a large hole in the side of the tent with his broadsword, and then left on horseback. Famine and Pestilence sloped off after him, dejected.
Once they were gone, Neil poked his head through the hole, followed by a minotaur carrying a large wooden hammer. ‘Sir, the Second Antenoran Guard have the tent surrounded, as per yer orders, sir.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Ben.
‘Do you think this over?’ rasped The Archivist. ‘It is not. Sister?’
The Castellan of the Veil emitted a high-pitched scream, and all three angels extended their wings. They lit up, and an inky black slit appeared in the air.
‘We are veterans of the Grand War,’ said The Archivist. ‘Did you really expect us to yield because a teenage boy won a board game?’
‘Yes,’ said Neil. ‘Fred?’
The minotaur lowed, and then quickly swung the hammer round. The Castellan of the Veil crumpled, and the gap in the air closed up immediately. Fred hoisted her round his shoulders, grabbed the other two angels by the scruff of their necks and dragged them out, Neil yapping excitedly behind them.
They were bound in chains and taken straight to Pandemonium through the cheering ranks of the mists. As they passed into the Underworld, Neil made sure to point out the newest addition to the Road of Good Intentions, which had been laid right at the edge of the Veil:
I WILL DESTROY ALL CREATION IN ORDER TO PROVE THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
As the demons and mists celebrated their victory in what must have surely been the only joyous scenes to ever take place in the Valley of Death, there was one combatant who was not joining in the fun. Ben sat in the tent on his own, the remains of
the greatest Warmonger victory of all time in front of him. He was glad that they had won, of course, but when he looked at the massive piles of discarded figures it made him realize that not only was his own world destroyed, he was also the last person alive to mourn it. Everyone else, everyone he had ever met, was either ghost or zombie.
The tent flap rustled, and Death entered. Her clothes were grubby and torn, and her hair was matted with martyr blood and dirt, but she looked about as radiant it was possible for the personification of mortality to be.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said.
‘Not really,’ said Ben.
‘I just wanted to thank you. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if the other Horsemen would’ve won.’
‘That’s all right. What will happen to them?’
‘Oh, there will still be conflicts, and hunger, and disease, and death. None of it stopped when we were locked in the Box. It won’t stop now that we’re out.’
‘But if there aren’t any people, and the world is destroyed, won’t it stop anyway?’
‘I don’t know. Everything is dead now, and I’m still here.’
‘Everything except me,’ said Ben.
Neil ducked under the tent flap, followed by the demons.
‘Permission to speak, sir.’
‘You don’t have to ask permission,’ said Ben. ‘And you definitely don’t need to call me “sir” any more.’
‘Right you are, sir. I mean Ben. Sorry, sir. Ben.’
‘Did you have something you wanted to say?’
‘What? Oh yeah. I’ve been rushed off my chuffin’ feet today, I don’t mind telling you. Don’t know whether I’m coming or going. His Nibs has sent me to invite you lot to dinner. Says he wants to talk about the future. He’s in a funny mood if you ask me.’
‘Can we go? Can we?’ said Djinn. ‘All this fighting has made me hungry.’
‘You were hungry before,’ said Kartofel.
‘Even hungrier, then.’
‘Maybe you’ll get your answers there,’ said Death.
‘I guess this is goodbye, then,’ said Ben. He shook her hand, and tried to smile even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘Oh, it’s never goodbye with me,’ said Death. ‘I’ll be seeing you again, that’s for sure.’
If the hairs on the back of his neck could have risen any higher, they would have.
The Opposition’s office had been remodelled as a dining room, with a low Japanese-style table set out for five. The Opposition beckoned for them to sit, and they did: Ben and Orff cross-legged, Djinn hovering as low as possible, Kartofel for once at a table that was just the right size for him.
Once the meal was over, and Crouch had taken away the empty plates (it took several overloaded trips to clear Djinn’s dishes), they retired to a set of high-backed leather chairs that had been positioned next to an open fire at the other end of the room. They settled down, and soon lapsed into an awkward silence, punctuated only by the occasional sigh from The Opposition.
‘Erm . . . Neil said you wanted to talk about the future?’ said Ben.
‘What? Did he?’ said The Opposition. ‘Oh.’ He turned to look into the fire, and a few more minutes passed in silence. Ben pushed his chair back.
‘Maybe we should go,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said The Opposition. ‘Where to?’
‘I was going to ask you that, but you don’t seem to be in the mood for company.’
‘No. No. I don’t suppose I am. Or ever will be again.’
‘Why not?’ said Kartofel. ‘We saved the whole world. We’re heroes. And you were proved right. When I’m proved right, which is all the time, I feel awesome.’
‘Indeed, friend Mnemnor. But do you really think it worth going to war to prove oneself right? Actually, don’t answer that. I know you too well.’
‘But . . . you won,’ said Ben.
‘Oh, this was never about winning. It never has been. They were trying to convert me to their way of thinking, not the other way round. I was quite happy to leave them to their delusions, if it gave them comfort. I just didn’t want my existence dictated by it.’
‘Then why are you sad?’ said Djinn.
‘Because, good sweet Ichthor, I do not know how I will fill the endless restless days ahead. Doubt has been removed. There is no Prime One. The problem with defining yourself as The Opposition is that one day you may have nothing to oppose.’
‘Then why don’t you help rebuild the Creation?’ said Ben.
‘It can hardly be called the Creation if no one created it, now, can it?’ The Opposition smiled. ‘No, I have no desire to replace one deity with another. Besides, it cannot be rebuilt.’ The Opposition clapped his hands, and a door that looked like something you might find on a submarine creaked open. Crouch waddled out in a radiation suit, carrying something at arm’s length with a pair of tongs. He dropped it at Ben’s feet, bowed, and left the way he came.
‘The Veil is still in a perilous state. That didn’t change because we won the war. It could still collapse, and the Worlds could still crush each other.’
Ben looked down at the object. It was burned, misshapen, and had a large splinterous hole in the lid, but he knew it right away. It was the Box.
‘I had Crouch retrieve it,’ said The Opposition.
‘Why?’ Ben ran his hand over the lid. A few of the burned black splinters crumbled, and he could see through to the empty interior. It did not react at all.
‘Why don’t you open it? In case there’s something left at the bottom there?’
The hinges were bent out of shape, and the lid was stiff. As Ben prised it open, it emitted a very dim green glow.
‘Perhaps you would do well to remember back to when the Box had hold of you. It had a certain restorative power, did it not? Remember that I had a hand in its creation. I could not very well let it out with the power to destroy if it did not also have the power to heal. Balance in all things.’
‘And this will fix the Veil?’
‘And more besides. It will also restore the worlds to their pre-apocalyptic state. Everything will be as it was. Simply ride through the Worlds, et voila! All the people and animals et cetera et cetera will be restored to life.’
‘Even my mum?’
‘Ah,’ said The Opposition. ‘No. I’m sorry. Everything that lived before the Horsemen were released. But be assured, I will keep an eye on your mother. For one thing, someone will need to look after Druss when he returns. I assume you don’t have the room for a giant rabbit at your house?’
Ben shook his head. The dull green light from the Box started to bleed into the corner of his vision, reaching out to him. He looked straight into the heart of it, and it shone a little brighter as he did. His mood lifted as he thought of all the people he would restore, and he smiled.
At last, he understood the light’s power; why it had tormented the demons, and why it was the only thing left in the Box after the apocalypse had been let loose.
He knew what the green light was.
It was Hope.
The four of them rode out over the plains of the Underworld. The Box brilliantly lit up the Veil as they passed through it, instantly revealing and then healing all the scars in the glue of the Worlds. They sprinted through the Afterworld and the light of the Box shone on both martyr and mist, wheedling out all those who had been alive before the Horsemen were freed, returning them to life.
They pressed on to the World, and saw natural disasters reverse before their eyes. Meteors hurtled back through space, lava seeped into the Earth’s crust, and tectonic plates rubbed and shifted back into position. For the people, it was as if they had all blinked, all at once; for in that second between darkness and light each of them had died and been resurrected without knowing.
And once everything was restored, Ben and the demons headed back to the cemetery, and dismounted.
‘What now then?’ said Kartofel.
&
nbsp; ‘We say goodbye,’ said Ben. He put his arms around Druss’s neck, and cuddled him tightly. Druss twitched his nose three times, then nuzzled Ben’s body with his head.
‘You can go now. Mum’s going to look after you.’ He ran his fingers through Druss’s fur one last time, and then patted his haunches. ‘Thank you.’
The rabbit tore off, and disappeared in a purple fizz.
‘Do we all have to do that?’ said Djinn. ‘Because I think Alf would be upset if I sent him back.’
‘No,’ said Ben. ‘You can go too.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Kartofel.
‘There’s no more Box. You don’t have collars any more. You can do whatever you want.’
‘I’ve always been able to do whatever I want. What you on about?’
‘I think,’ said Orff, ‘that Ben is trying to tell us something.’
‘I’m confused,’ said Djinn.
‘We have to say goodbye,’ said Orff.
‘Oh.’
‘But . . .’ said Kartofel. ‘But you said we can go wherever we want.’
‘Just not here,’ said Orff.
Ben nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We quite understand,’ said Orff. He remounted Legion, who had taken the form of a donkey. Four small patches of grass turned brown beneath his hoofs.
‘Where are you going?’ said Djinn.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Orff. ‘Perhaps back to the Underworld. I think Legion would like to see Drablow again.’
‘That sounds nice,’ said Djinn. ‘Can we come?’
‘I can’t believe you two are seriously entertaining this,’ said Kartofel. ‘We can’t split up now. It’s not right.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ said Orff. ‘Good luck, Ben. Perhaps we will meet again, next time the Worlds need saving. Goodbye.’ He dug his heels into Legion’s sides, and the cloud became a leopard. It sprinted away, with Orff holding on tight. Djinn mounted Alf, and they leaped into the air.
‘Bye, Ben,’ said Djinn as they flew off. ‘We love you!’
The Box of Demons Page 21
