Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  Asmodeus clenched his fist and punched it into the air. Far below him the darkness spiralled downwards with a new violence, dissolving half-shapes and erupting into others, only to lose them again.

  The plan was already forming in his mind, details becoming clearer every second. Tathea’s heart would break, her soul would surrender at last, a ruined thing he could hold in his grasp for ever.

  For Sardriel he would use Azrub. Asmodeus’ lip curled at the thought of the golden dwarf with his disgusting appetites, the lewd gleam in his yellow goat-eyes. But he had skills that were necessary, and much as Asmodeus hated satisfying anything in him, there was no other way.

  He raised his voice across the yawning spaces and summoned him.

  Azrub stood shimmering just in front of the parapet beyond which lay chaos. The cold light played on the diamond panes of his sleeves and his white hands fluttered. He looked eager, and only very slightly afraid. Not enough ... damn him! But then he was damned! He would never have a body either, which was why the filth in his soul fed on the lusts and dreams of others—and would do so for eternity.

  “I have work for you,” Asmodeus said abruptly.

  Azrub inclined his big head. “Of course.” He oozed satisfaction. He licked his lips and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin.

  Asmodeus decided to torment him a while. “In the Lost Lands,” he said, watching Azrub’s face.

  “The Lost Lands?” Azrub was surprised. “What for?”

  “To delude them, fool!” Asmodeus snapped. “What do you think I want you to do, frighten them out of their wits? You wouldn’t know how!”

  Azrub’s heavy eyelids half closed. “Delude them into what?”

  “Do you need me to tell you?” Asmodeus said with mock disgust. “I thought you could read the secret longings of everyone? Isn’t that how you create for them the illusion of what they want?”

  “And what do you want?” Azrub asked.

  Asmodeus suspected sarcasm; worse than that, insolence. But he would bide his time for revenge.

  “Sardriel is Lord of the Lost Lands,” he said with exaggerated patience, as if Azrub were a fool. “I want the Lost Lands in your grasp, deluded, weakened for invasion by Siriom of Kyeelan-Iss. His greedy soul lusts after their wealth. It always has. Make them ripe for his plucking.”

  “You want Siriom’s soul?” Azrub asked.

  “I already have it, imbecile!” Asmodeus shouted at him. “I want Sardriel! If his own lands are invaded he will go to them! Then you can have him. When he is separated from Tathea and Ishrafeli, you can enter his heart and read the loneliness there, and then weave a delusion that he will choose above all reality. Then I will have him! Sardriel, the lord of the pure truth ... pledged to a delusion!”

  “I see.” Azrub shifted his immense weight from one foot to the other in his excitement. “I see!” Sardriel was sweet prey indeed—perhaps the ultimate conquest.

  “No, you don’t!” Asmodeus glared at him, his face dark with loathing and contempt. “You see nothing! If Sardriel chooses delusion over reality, then I can take the Island at the Edge of the World! And I can make Tathea watch it! When that falls, then the whole earth will be devastated, a ruin like the dust of hell. She will believe God Himself has abandoned it—and that will finally bring her to her knees before me.”

  “I’ll do it!” Azrub said softly, licking his lips again. “I’ll do it!”

  “Of course you’ll do it!” Asmodeus swore. “Not because you want to, or because you understand. You’ll do it because I tell you to!”

  But Azrub was smiling as he bowed, and hurried away without asking leave. He knew Asmodeus’ heart as Asmodeus knew his, and he understood the craving that devours from the inside.

  When he had disappeared, Asmodeus stood on the shadowed battlements of Erebus and stared at the emptiness above him, then at the whirling and dissolving darkness around, the roaring of dissolution and the changing shapes of chaos. He thought of the bright, endless worlds beyond, glory upon glory, where even the tiniest beasts that fly and swim and know nothing but the few inches around them yet had bodies, substance, and were perfect in their own measure. And he gave way to a rage that howled and thrashed and bit the air till the ramparts shook and the void yawned beneath and the broken fragments of matter shivered into tinier pieces and fled into the night.

  And it changed not a single fact. When at last he picked himself up, everything was exactly as before, except he hated himself even more profoundly, and hated Tathea with a bitterness unto death.

  But he knew of another ancient, undying hate, and he knew how he would use it. He sent for Cassiodorus, Lord of Terror.

  He did not come bright with glittering arms like Azrub, but walked the full length of the battlements, slowly, as if he were on parade, his cloak swinging behind him, the dead light on his thick, curly hair and his broad, arrogant face with its brutal mouth. He stopped in front of Asmodeus, just short of insolence. There was no servility in him, no submission, but even he could not forget who was master.

  “You have work for me?” he said quietly.

  “Of course,” Asmodeus said acidly. “Did you think I wanted your advice?”

  “It is yours, if you do.” Cassiodorus lifted his brows very slightly; again it was almost insolence, but not quite.

  “I don’t!” Asmodeus snapped. “I require your obedience. You chose to follow Tiyo-Mah through the portal and begin Armageddon ...”

  Cassiodorus flinched, just a tiny movement of a muscle in his cheek, but Asmodeus saw it and it satisfied him.

  “... so you will earn your place in our victory,” he finished.

  “How? What do you want me to do?” Now there was definitely obedience.

  Asmodeus smiled. “Shortly the barbarians will attack Camassia again, far more powerfully. There will be fear across the country like fire over dry grass. They will look to a greater leader for their armies.”

  Cassiodorus sighed with the pleasure of anticipation. It was in the brightness of his eyes, the slight flexing of his shoulders. “You want me to lead the barbarians?” he asked.

  “The Camassians, fool!” Asmodeus grated between his teeth. “I want them taught to become more barbaric than their enemies. I want them to believe that any act whatever, no matter how bestial, is justified in the fight for survival. I want them to descend below the savages until they have become subhuman, with no way back to sanity or the ordinary decencies of life—not ever!”

  Cassiodorus breathed out very slowly. There was admiration in his face, and something almost like respect. “Good,” he said in a whisper. “Very good. But it is not my usual way.”

  “Then change!” Asmodeus retorted, half turning away, as if their business were concluded.

  It scalded Cassiodorus’ pride. If Asmodeus needed him, let him pay for it! “Why?” he asked.

  Asmodeus whirled around, eyes blazing. “Because I tell you to!”

  Cassiodorus had every intention of obeying. He relished the prospect of so much slaughter, battlefields of it, blood and terror everywhere. But he would exact a price, all the same. “Then give me something in return,” he said insolently.

  Asmodeus took a step towards him, his face beautiful in form and hideous of expression. “You have the pleasure of satisfying your appetite,” he hissed. “That is what you live for. Do you imagine I don’t know you? I can see every violent and obscene thought within you, every titillating joy as someone else cowers in terror. I know you as I know my own heart!”

  Cassiodorus felt violated by those clever, intrusive eyes, as if his being had been stripped naked for all to see. Rage boiled up inside him and spewed forth.

  “Of course you do!” he yelled, choking on his own tongue. “Because you are the same! Only you can’t go to the earth yet, in case you are recognised. There are thousands of good souls there still. It’s too soon for you. But I can!”

  An equal fury exploded in Asmodeus. This rebellion was intolerable. He hurled the po
wer of his rage in black violence, but it bounced off Cassiodorus as if his shining hunger for fear were an armour, and he threw back his head and laughed, a long, shattering sound high in his throat, like the bray of an animal, as primal as blood lust.

  Asmodeus roared back at him, drowning him in sound like the breaking of rocks as continents collided.

  Cassiodorus was touched for an instant by fear himself, but he knew his usefulness. Asmodeus might destroy him one day, but not yet! “I want Tathea!” he screamed back. “She beat me in Parfyrion—in front of the court. Let me have her now!”

  “She’s mine!” Asmodeus said, his voice cold and dark.

  “I don’t want to kill her, just let me cause her pain!” Cassiodorus pleaded.

  “If you kill her, I’ll banish you to live among the dead, who know no fear!” Asmodeus swore. “You’ll starve ... slowly!”

  “I won’t kill her! Just make her wish I had!” Cassiodorus swore, his face pale, his fists clenched. “Give me that, and I’ll make the Camassian army murder every living thing. They’ll tear the barbarians limb from limb, rape their women and eat their children.” He was shaking with excitement, his bold eyes shining, his lips parted.

  Asmodeus looked at him and his gorge rose in disgust.

  “Then don’t stand here talking about it! Get out!” he ordered. “Get out!”

  He watched as Cassiodorus hesitated only a moment, then turned and obeyed. He walked jauntily, going the full length of the battlement before he disappeared, swallowed in the clouds of dust.

  Asmodeus hated him because his rage reminded him of his own: savage, uncontrolled, consuming. He wanted him gone.

  Ishrafeli was wretched, but there was nothing he could do to bridge the gulf between himself and Tathea. The ache inside him seemed to touch every part of his being. It took all the mental strength he possessed to control his thoughts and direct them towards any sort of useful act. She had lied to him. He knew exactly why; he understood perfectly. She wanted to protect him from pain she feared he could not bear. She was afraid he might not endure it, that he might fail. But she had not only thought it of him, she had denied the best in herself, that white fire of integrity within her soul, and the burden that lay between them.

  It was evening, and he was sitting in the garden room with her, talking a little stiltedly over the events of the day—small things, details achieved or to be attended to. A breeze rustled the leaves of the lemon trees and whispered in the grass. Sunlight slanted across the floor and made bright globes of the ripe apricots in the bowl on the table.

  There was a knock on the door and Ishrafeli stood to answer it. He pulled it ajar, then wide, shock and delight sweeping over him. Sadokhar stood in the entrance. It had been over two years since Ishrafeli had seen him in Lantrif, but he looked far older than he had then. There were pale streaks in his hair, but it was in his face that his age showed most: the lines cut deep from nose to mouth, the sensitivity of his lips, the slow pain and wisdom in his eyes.

  Wordless with emotion Ishrafeli threw his arms around him and they clasped each other. Then Sadokhar broke free and as he came into the room Tathea stared at him in such wonder and joy she could barely speak his name.

  “Sadokhar,” she whispered. Slowly at first, she took a step towards him, then another, then clung to him with all her strength, and he to her, as if even here in the City, freed from hell and enfolded in life again, he needed to hold her with all his strength.

  Perhaps he was remembering. From his face, the tenderness in it that shone like the last, aching light of the sun across the sky, the thoughts in him needed no words.

  Then Ishrafeli realised with a start that another had followed Sadokhar in. He was utterly different. He was not quite so tall, and leaner of build. He stood with a certain grace, but it was his face that arrested the attention. It was lean-boned, his eyes were wide and dark grey, his nose broad at the bridge and strong, his mouth scarred beneath the lower lip. There was strength in his face, for good or ill, and immense passion, hunger for all manner of things. And yet there were other wounds also, as if he had endured suffering beyond description. His dark hair was blasted with white.

  He hesitated, uncertain how he would be received, his eyes on Tathea, barely noticing Ishrafeli.

  This must be Tornagrain, who had betrayed Sadokhar in his youth on the Eastern Shore. Tathea had spoken of it to Ishrafeli in whispered words in the closeness of the night, and told him that Sadokhar could leave hell only with Tornagrain beside him.

  No wonder Tornagrain hesitated now. What uncertainty, what guilt must hold him? Ishrafeli stared at him in wonder, and then an incredible awe grew inside him. He was looking at the face of a man who had been redeemed from hell and returned to the earth to walk again in a mortal body, a man who had drunk the fullness of the grace of God.

  He heard Tathea speak. Sadokhar stood aside and Tornagrain walked forward.

  Tathea looked steadily at Tornagrain, then she held out her hands to him. Ishrafeli saw the tears wet on his cheeks, and that he could think of no words to say.

  He wanted to look at Tathea himself; honestly, with all the old intimacy. In looking at Tornagrain’s face he had understood both the darkness and the light in a new way, and he ached to share it with her, as he would have anything that mattered, good or ill. But they had both built the gulf now, her lie, his failure to understand the path of Armageddon and the power of Asmodeus.

  He smiled, and looked not quite at her. He welcomed Sadokhar and Tornagrain and offered them food, then listened to all they had to say, hearing the urgency in their voices, the passion and hunger to join the battle that filled their words and every line of their physical presence. They sat in the room with its warm, earth-toned walls, the small table with terracotta dishes filled with slices of cheese and rough bread, fingers caressing the textures as if they would never tire.

  “Did you come out through Sylum?” Tathea asked eagerly.

  Ishrafeli was not jealous of her love for Sadokhar—he understood it too well for what it was—but the ache of his own loneliness became greater. He loved her with an intensity, a wholeness that threatened to drive from his mind even the passionate good he sought, and had dedicated himself to fight for. The room seemed oddly distant, and Sadokhar’s answer to come from far away.

  “Yes,” he nodded slightly. “And Orocyno was still there, but I think he passed into nothingness as we used the portal. It had weakened him until finally he faded away altogether.” He leaned forward towards her. “There are things of the Island I think you need to know. We went to Tyrn Vawr, of course, but secretly, to speak with Ythiel and the other Knights of the Western Shore, and saw much that concerns us. Perhaps because it has happened slowly we noticed the changes more than they.”

  “What changes?” she said quickly.

  Sadokhar turned to Ishrafeli, startling him. “The Silver Lords are stronger in Lantrif since you left. I heard them spoken of with a respect I had never observed before.”

  Ishrafeli felt a chill, as if someone had opened a door into a winter night, and yet nothing had changed except that the wind was rising a little and the light fading. But he remembered the night in the forest when Karguish and the four other Silver Lords had asked him to become the sixth and complete their power. He knew now that they had found the last man and the circle was made whole. They had dredged in the secret places and reformed the ancient secrets of the earth and air, and again were using them to bind rather than to free, to get and not to give.

  He rose and lit the candles, aware that Sadokhar was looking at him with anxiety, and perhaps the beginning of understanding.

  “And in the south Siriom is building armies in Kyeelan-Iss,” Sadokhar went on. “More than he can need for any threat against him or his people. Mile by mile he is spreading his boundaries and, more worrying than that, he is bribing mariners to bring Lost Landers to Kyeelan-Iss, those who could sail the Maelstrom and take others back through it to Orimiasse.” He had no need t
o explain his fear. Siriom had long hated Sardriel and all to do with his kingdom and his people. He did not know the reason why, but it lay in some rivalry bitter and deep.

  Ishrafeli asked him more, and the four of them talked long into the night. Sadokhar was full of questions about the war in the City and how peace had come, and what had happened to Ulciber and the Lords of the Undead.

  “We don’t know,” Ishrafeli confessed. “No one has seen Ulciber in months, but that doesn’t mean he is not here, waiting. No one has seen Balour either.”

  “But he is not gone,” Tathea said quickly, glancing at Ishrafeli, and away again, her face suddenly tight and a little pale. “He too will be waiting for another chance. The Lords of the Undead can’t be destroyed.”

  “Yes, I think they can!” Sadokhar looked from one to the other of them. “I fought one of them in ... in hell.” He said the word with hesitation, and there was a pallor to his skin as he did so, almost a greyness.

  Ishrafeli saw Tathea wince and her body recoil as if she had been stricken with a pain deep inside herself. He reached out his hand towards her, then at the last moment withdrew it again, remembering the distance between them, and the pain was as deep within him.

  “I defeated him,” Sadokhar continued, staring into a distance only he could see. “The Lords of the Undead are legion souls inside one body, trapped together. They can be made to fight one another, and tear themselves apart.” His eyes were hollow, almost blind to the soft room around him in the candlelight. “Ozmander dismembered himself in front of me.”

  “They can die?” Tathea said with disbelief.

  “No ...” He did not meet her eyes. “No ... he was still alive.”

  She reached across and touched his hand, asking nothing more.

  Sadokhar looked up. “We can fight them! We must. Not only for ourselves, but perhaps for them also. Free the best in them from the worst ... a chance for each to choose for himself again, perhaps better this time.”