The Power of Five Oblivion

suddenly launched itself into the air and soared over the mountain tops, the snow exploding beneath its beating wings. There were said to be other monsters too: a condor, a monkey, even a spider. Nobody had seen them. But they would come out when they were needed and nothing could stand in their way.
    And what of Chaos himself? He was nowhere and he was everywhere. He never appeared but there was no doubt that the fortress was his creation and that he was aware of everything that took place within its walls. Some said that he lived deep within the mountain itself and that he was injured. At night, they heard the cracking of the ice and the deep rumble as the glaciers disintegrated and collapsed into the sea. But there was another, uglier sound. A tortured breathing, the rasp of breath drawn in pain.
    Long ago, Chaos had been hurt by one of the Five. And all this – the fortress, the walls, the ice shelf, the gathered forces, the monsters – existed only to draw him in. The King of the Old Ones had no further interest in the world. All he wanted was revenge. That was what people said.
    In the last few weeks, an army had come together to fight him.
    There were only a few thousand of them, a ragtag assembly of survivors who had somehow been drawn together from all over the world. They had come by plane and by boat, making their crossings from South America, South Africa and Australia. Somehow the word had spread. The Internet had disappeared a long time ago but there was still rumour, whispers, even dreams. The last surviving Incas had come down from Peru. The Society of the White Lotus had sent representatives from the East. Native Americans from different tribes had come together and made the journey south. Even in the twenty-first century there were secret societies and organizations that remembered the Old Ones and who knew what had to be done.
    And the Nexus had been busy, recruiting volunteers, arming them, helping them on their way. They’d had ten years to prepare. They knew they would only have one chance for success.
    There were more than sixty aircraft scattered across the ice at the edge of Oblivion, close to the sea, most of them commercial, a few private or military. They had landed, skidded, spun and stopped, ice spitting from beneath their wheels. Now they looked like discarded toys, facing in every direction, their wings almost touching. They would never take off again, but at least they could be used as living and sleeping quarters. It was summer in Antarctica. The sun never set. But still the temperature was close to zero and the wind howled across the ice shelf, bringing with it blizzards and snow that travelled horizontally, rattling against the metal and the glass.
    Down below, just off the beach, a whole fleet had assembled and lay at anchor. It looked like some sort of marine scrapyard. There were cruise ships, container ships, luxury yachts, hydrofoils, trawlers, fishing boats, even an oil tanker. The remains of different navies had found their way here: two battleships – one from Argentina, the other from France – a US aircraft carrier, a British submarine. They were spread out along the coast, being tossed up and down by the waves, waiting for the call to action. The sailors had been busy. They had cut pathways and steps all the way up the ice cliff so that they could make their way up to land, joining the pilots and the passengers who had already arrived. And up on the surface they had constructed tents and bivouacs close to the planes. This was where they met, made their plans, prepared their weapons.
    They called themselves the World Army.
    It was a brave title but everyone knew that it disguised an unpleasant truth. They were little more than a rabble, outnumbered and ill-equipped; short on weapons, ammunition, medicine and food. There was a limit to the amount of time they could stay here. Every hour was a constant struggle against the cold, and the danger was that they would begin to die even before the fight began.
    They were waiting for the five Gatekeepers. Without them they had no chance. Five children. It seemed incredible that four boys and one girl were all that stood between them and complete destruction. Between them and Oblivion, they might say.
    For several days now, the fortress had stood silent. More planes had landed, touching down on the ice and slithering to a halt. One, the most recent, was an Emirates airline Airbus that had come all the way from Dubai. Every