Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  The centre of the pool boiled, and then erupted out of it a creature unlike anything human. Its head was black, and as the round, hairless skull of a great bird, crooked-beaked, sunken-eyed. Its broken many-jointed limbs hung down from narrow shoulders, as if they should have been wings, but at the ends were claws, curved for rending and tearing.

  Its visage was both cruel and clever, and it held such a hatred that as it hovered above the pool, the old man shrieked and stumbled back from it.

  Kor-Assh stared. It wore Manila’s gown, and copper-bright weed surrounded its leathery neck. Infinitely slowly it raised one claw and the talons shrivelled as if something were loosed from its grasp.

  Kor-Assh fell to his knees, his breath strangled in his throat. He tried to crawl forward, but his strength was gone.

  Nioba stepped to the edge of the pool and bent, touching her fingers to the water, and from them spread a sweet purity, cleansing the darkness to a shimmering green again, but troubled to a greater and greater whirling until it foamed and leaped in a brilliant vortex that sucked the petrified demon to itself, and drew it down into the hollows beneath, stone into the stone heart.

  The water settled and once again was a limpid, perfect surface.

  Kor-Assh pitched forward in a faint. The men around him were too horrified at first even to move to his aid. The old man stood unmoving, a smile like sunrise on his face, growing brighter and brighter until it was impossible to look upon him.

  Nioba too shone with a radiance as if a light burned within her. Tathea crept forward past the shuddering figure of the old man, and kneeled beside Kor-Assh, taking him in her arms and holding him, rocking back and forth, too stunned to speak.

  “Your love has been great enough,” Nioba said softly, her voice like the wind. “Not once but twice. Now he is free to become himself.”

  Chapter VII

  KOR-ASSH AWOKE TO FEEL Tathea’s arms around him and see the fear and wonder in her face. Then his vision cleared and he saw beyond her to the shining form of Nioba, altered to seem a being more of light than of substance, and he heard her words as if an echo in his mind.

  “Now you are free to be yourself.”

  It was as if shackles had fallen from him, although he felt dizzy and stunned with relief, and elation, and fear. The question in his prayer was beginning to be answered, but it was still incomplete.

  He sat up slowly, Tathea’s arm still half supporting him. Then she let him go and moved back.

  Nioba and the old man were hardly visible any more; they looked like shafts of sunlight brilliant through the forest leaves.

  Kor-Assh turned to Tathea. He was free to love her. Everything that Marilla had been was fallen away, the bands of obligation were dissolved, shown to have been of Asmodeus’ forging, there to cripple, not to strengthen. But Tathea was the Bringer of the Book. What could he do, even in the furnace of Armageddon, that could be worthy of that?

  He did not even know yet what his mission would be. He could read the staff, but not understand it. What could it mean to speak the name of all things?

  He stood up slowly, swaying a little, but waving away assistance. He must stand alone. Ceawlin’s words “And in you a priest” echoed in his head. What was the calling of a priest?

  He mounted his horse and waited as Tathea did also, then turned and began the journey back to Tyrn Vawr, followed in silence by the bewildered Lords from Lantrif.

  All the way his mind was consumed in thought. He longed above all else in existence to fight Armageddon and serve the cause of God, to pour out all his strength and his passion for life in the battle for the earth. All this made sense. Asmodeus would not have been blind to that, nor have suffered him to prepare unimpeded!

  If Tathea had walked such a long and terrible path alone, if Sardriel had suffered some way in the past too anguished to share, if Ardesir now followed Tiyo-Mah into Shinabar, and Sadokhar went through the gates of hell itself, why would he, Kor-Assh, be free to come and go as he pleased with no one to assail him in spirit?

  In Marilla the enemy had been there by his side for years, unrecognised. It chilled him to the bone; it frightened him because he tasted the beginning of its power and its hate. Asmodeus knew him by name, perhaps even knew his exact calling better than he did himself.

  And yet it was also a kind of release, a clean wound of truth, a setting free. He wanted to be with Tathea, and yet when he thought of her the ache inside him was intolerable. Something within him remembered an older, deeper love that held him closer than dreams, soul-deep, heart and bone of him beyond reason, beyond denial. And yet there was no way but forward. War waited on no man, no grief, no hunger.

  As the first crippling horror at what Marilla had been wore off him his mind began to race again. If Asmodeus had sent her, or even created her, to bind him from his calling, was her message about the threat of civil war in Lantrif necessarily true? Perhaps not, and there was no need for him to return.

  He dropped back from riding beside Tathea and spoke with the leader of the escort, questioning him closely, pressing him for details, names, numbers of men. They answered him hesitantly at first, then with increasing awareness that the trouble was actually no worse than rumour, petty quarrelling and the usual old feuds that had rumbled on for decades.

  He gave them instructions and authority to act in his name, then sent them home to the City of Fallen Kings and returned his mind to the greater struggle. He tried not to imagine what Asmodeus would do because of the destruction of Marilla, or what the next threat would be, or to whom.

  And there were two more parts of the prophecy to be fulfilled, one of which even Kor-Assh’s dreams dared not touch, uncertain if he could bear the separation it must bring, and yet he must. Ishrafeli had not returned, nor had the Book been opened, and both must come before Armageddon.

  Late in the evening after their return, Kor-Assh found Tathea in the yellow chamber above the courtyard. He had not seen her since they had ridden in, weary and dusty from travel. Deliberately he had avoided her, until he had mastered his emotions and could face her with dignity.

  She looked tired. There were hollows around her eyes and an uncertainty in her when she saw him.

  “We must find the sixth warrior,” he said simply. “Perhaps it is Ulfin after all.”

  “Yes ...” She grasped the idea, her eyes searching his, trying to weigh his healing, and afraid to probe. He was startled how already he saw her tenderness, and the depth of how she could be hurt. He lowered his gaze, in case he should intrude too far, too quickly.

  “We should go soon,” he said aloud. “Asmodeus will not wait for me to gather strength.” Then he realised how unnecessary it was to say that, to her of all people. “Tomorrow?” he asked. She nodded.

  They left the city, riding north rapidly, carrying only food, a little water, cloaks against the cold or rain, and of course the staff.

  Early autumn had come suddenly. The fields were stubble where the harvest had been cut. The haze in the air carried the sharp smell of wood-smoke and the heavy sweetness of rotting leaves. The trees and hedgerows flamed with colour, scarlet berries bright as blood.

  They continued northwards through the centre of the Island, past the western outskirts of Hirioth, without entering, nor did they speak of it. The trees towered high, green turning to bronze and gold, wind whispering in the leaves.

  Past Hirioth the travellers started to climb up the ever-steepening incline from the softer valleys on to the high, bare moors of Celidon—endless, wind-scoured skies, vast cloud racks splashing sunlight and shadow over land rolling into impossible distances, blue into purple on the horizon. It had a terrible beauty that filled Kor-Assh with wonder.

  He looked at Tathea, the fading light gold on her face, the sweet air soft around them. He thought of Sadokhar, who had loved it enough to leave it and enter a suffering he could only imagine, so that the last terrible war could be fought in the time of their choosing, not of Asmodeus.’

  There wer
e bees in the heather. A butterfly flew dizzily past, drunk with nectar. Mice and weasels scurried where he could not see them, and probably rabbits as well. Further up the slopes wild deer started and ran with their strange, awkward elegance.

  A flight of wild white swans crossed the darkening blue of the sky, calling to each other, going south. He counted fourteen. He knew they mated for life, and a tug of envy pulled at him too quickly for him to bury it.

  “This is what the battle is for,” he said, gazing across the land. “This beauty, this abundance, this workmanship of God. We fight so that it will never fall into the slime of corruption and pain that would be the victory of darkness. If we cannot love this, in what way could we possibly liken ourselves to its creator?”

  She did not need words to frame an answer. It was in her eyes, the curve of her lips, her silence.

  Past Celidon they crossed the Wastelands, desolate and stark in their own beauty. The bracken was gold, the heather, already past its flower, dark on the jagged land. Clouds, mackerel-ribbed, filtered the sun in the south, but to the north the light was clean and cold, pure as snow. Small tarns, reed-speared, reflected brilliant patches like fallen shards of sky. The mountains of Dinath-Aurer were violet, soft in the distance, colossal, like shadows over the west. Kor-Assh had never seen a land of such blinding purity, and he found emotion so high in his throat he was glad Tathea honoured the silence as he did. There was something in it too vast and too tender to break with words.

  It was another three days before they crossed the border into Kharkheryll, the last bastion before the sheer drop into the ocean. It was a huge promontory jutting out into water beset by great winds in winter, lashing the seas into white fury. Century by century the cliffs had eroded, leaving caverns which echoed in the tides, sudden inlets, and rivers that ceased without warning in torrential waterfalls which roared like never-ending thunder and shot rainbows into the air.

  He was tense now, and he saw it also in Tathea, although she said nothing of it. In a short time they would meet Ulfin, and have to test him with the staff. Surely he must be the sixth warrior. They knew of no one else, and there seemed no other place to seek. In fact Kor-Assh wondered why the man had not come to Tyrn Vawr himself, impelled by the spirit to offer his sword, his skill, his life in a cause which he must surely love? Only the quarrels of Lantrif and the power of the Silver Lords had held him himself from coming sooner.

  And perhaps were he wiser he would have been prepared before Sadokhar had sought him. He knew that at times he had not been an easy man to serve. He had learned no patience with lies or cowardice, little tolerance with those who fell short of his own standards. He expected his lords to grasp at life with both hands and take the bruising without complaint. He gave his compassion secretly, so the receiver would feel no burden, and at least in part to hide his own gentleness from those who must hold him in awe if they were to obey him. The Silver Lords had loved Marilla, or what they thought she was! She was their hereditary liege, but they had never loved him.

  Which made a mockery of their arts! They had not seen her clearly, any more than he had.

  But that was something he refused to think now. It could cripple his mind and heart, and leave him of no use to Tathea, or the cause they served.

  Tathea turned to him, breaking his thoughts. “We are watched,” she said softly. “Up on the ridge to the left, just below the skyline, and to the right in the trees. They must know who we are, or at least that we come in peace.”

  Kor-Assh had been unaware of being observed. He upbraided his own inattention, but silently, leaning a little forward now and watching the horizon ahead.

  He and Tathea rode steadily westwards and at last they reached the end of the track in a valley between sheer walls. They dismounted and climbed a flight of steps cut out of the hillside, leading to a castle seeming as much hewn out of the rock as built upon it.

  Kor-Assh looked up at it with a sense of foreboding. It had a savagery about it as though the conceivers of such a fortress had expected to stand against the world. Once the Flamens had ruled the whole Island, except Lantrif. Then the Camassian invasion had driven them to the mountains and the forests. After the Camassians, the raiders from the Sea Isles had come, conquering much of the Eastern Shore and driving inland, ruining the ordered Imperial cities and laying them waste.

  Kor-Assh saw no one, but he was certain the high, slit windows—angled outwards to give an archer a wide sweep—were manned, probably day and night.

  Tathea led the way through the entrance and inside. He wondered how many times she had been here before, and when.

  The cullis was left open behind them, but it could have been closed at an instant’s notice, and Kor-Assh was certain the inner watchtowers were manned as well.

  The visitors were welcomed and Ulfin himself came to the steps of the inner court. He was a fair, slender man with sky-blue eyes and a face that seemed to reflect laughter and tragedy in equal parts, yet curiously concealed all but the most surface of his thoughts.

  “Welcome to Kharkheryll, my lady,” he said, inclining his head to Tathea. He looked beyond her to Kor-Assh. “And you, my lord of Lantrif.” In one phrase he had told them how well guarded he was, and yet with such graciousness it could not give offence. “Come in and eat and rest,” he went on. “Your journey has been long. It must be a matter of great import that brings you so far.”

  “It is,” Tathea agreed.

  Kor-Assh turned to consider his horse, but already a soft-footed man had gone to it and was preparing to lead away both it and Tathea’s. It was then he remembered what she had told him of Flamen belief in the reverence for all beasts, for the trees and the herbs, even for the rocks of the earth. It was strange but it sat at ease in his mind, and he was startled that it should be so.

  They followed Ulfin into the hall, narrower than Tyrn Vawr’s, and far older. Steep iron-railed stairs led upwards around the outer wall, and high windows looked out over mountains and crags to a jagged skyline.

  They were each shown rooms and offered water, little sweet cakes, and bidden to the hall by dusk.

  Tathea hesitated a moment outside her door, the staff still in her hand, then smiled and went in.

  In Kor-Assh’s room fresh clothes had been set out, as if he were not only expected, but they had known exactly what would fit and suit him—a floor-length tunic of rich, dark fabric decorated with silver. After washing away the dust of travel he put it on. He looked at himself in the length of glass. It was highly becoming and after adjusting it to sit a little better on his shoulders he fastened the clasp. The light was already fading in the sky when, with Tathea, now dressed in purple, he made his way down again to the Great Hall where they had been invited to dine.

  They were made welcome again, and offered places at the head table. There were nearly fifty people in the room, and the food served was rich and delicate, but Kor-Assh noticed there was no flesh of bird or beast, nor did anyone wear fur.

  As the eating drew to a close a lone musician stepped into the centre of the floor. He carried in his hand a stringed instrument which he played not with his fingers, like a lute, but with a bow. It was an extraordinary sound, like a living soul, carrying all manner of emotions. It seemed to tell a story which ended in overwhelming tragedy, and then at last silence.

  Kor-Assh listened to it intently. He could feel the music tremble on his skin and cut to his heart. He was moved by it, compelled to know more, and he turned to Tathea and saw pain and wonder in her also. He looked to Ulfin.

  Ulfin smiled. “You heard it?” It was barely a question, but his eyes were shining, almost luminous.

  Lantrif had music, but nothing with the power of this. It haunted the mind, probing into the dreams and wounding places long covered over, wakening nameless emotions, memories of the soul.

  “Tell me,” Kor-Assh answered.

  Ulfin leaned back a little.

  “It’s a legend among our people,” he began, looking into the dista
nce. “The old gods who first found the world and loved it were here for a long time, no one knows how long.” There was a faint smile on his lips, a mixture of mockery and grief. “They cared for it, they spoke with the beasts and the trees, the birds of the air. They knew everything by name. They watched the seasons change, the seed time and the harvest, the sleeping of the earth and the awakening.” He sighed. “Then one morning a man came, full of curiosity and pride, and the will to change things, to place his own mark upon everything he could touch.”

  Ulfin’s fingers turned the goblet he was holding, catching the light in the depths of its stem, clouded blues and purples.

  “He became clever,” he resumed softly. “He multiplied and covered the face of the land. He built and he invented. He changed things from the way they used to be. And the gods watched him, and in the fire, and the stars, they saw what he would become in ages yet to be.” He twisted the glass a little more. “His cleverness would grow greater and greater until he could unlock the secrets of life. But he forgot wisdom, he forgot humility. Above all he forgot who he was. He no longer knew his Father or his Mother. He imagined he was alone, and could do everything ... and yet he was running ever faster towards nothing.”

  Kor-Assh glanced at Tathea. He still was not certain if Ulfin were telling a story that was no more than myth, passed down for pleasure, or the core of his own faith. The light on his face touched the lines that could have been tragedy, and the sky-blue brilliance of his eyes that was laughter ... or tears.

  But she was listening with the same intensity that he was, the same urgency to know.

  It was several seconds before Ulfin picked up the thread again.

  “He built more and more things,” he said. “His towns became places of iron and stone, with no leaves growing in them. He used the herbs and the trees to feed his wants, and tore up what did not serve him. He used the beasts for their labour, their flesh, their skins, their horns and their bones.” His voice dropped and became harsh with sorrow. “He used their love and their fear for his entertainment. He looked at their beauty and devoured it for himself, as if they possessed no souls, and had no being of their own.”