Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  “I thought I did,” she admitted. “Does that make any difference?”

  He stopped, swinging around to face her, his eyes wide and dark, his shoulders hunched against the cold. “You knew they’d fail, and you still put them to the test?”

  She wished she could answer him differently. The dark landscape, with its leaden sky obliterating the moon, and the glimmer of snow-patched grass in the red torch flare, the wind keening through the branches of the trees, was a perfect mirror of the loneliness she felt inside herself. But it was too late in time to retreat now, or for gentle answers that were less than the truth.

  “I didn’t know, and I could have been wrong ...” She ignored the scepticism in him. “Now is the time for them to choose. There isn’t always a tomorrow for you to do better.”

  He looked stricken, as if the one thing he had trusted had let him down with no reason and no warning.

  She had to show him, even though it would mean miles more tramping over the frozen grass, through the trees and down the scree slopes, slipping on the loose earth and stones, then more forced marching to catch up with the others again. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand.

  She led the way back, walking carefully to keep within the shelter of the trees, unseen all the slippery way back to where the executions had been carried out. She did not want to see it, and she knew he did not either, but there was no escape now.

  When they reached the place it was grey dawn and the men who had done it had gone. The dead men lay on the scarlet snow, hacked to pieces by broadswords. They were twenty-five against a hundred, and they had stood still for their slaughterers.

  Ardesir drew his breath in with a great sob, and in spite of himself, let it out in a cry of pain.

  “Look at them again,” Tathea said quietly. “Look at their faces.” It was minutes before he could do it. The wind whined through the trees and dark, carrion birds circled overhead. Then he walked forward, his footsteps crackling on the ice and bent over the nearest one where he lay, his body contorted in his final physical agony.

  Ardesir forced himself to look at the face, and slowly something changed in him, a searing peace broke open, a light that burned, as he recognised the victory in each of them, complete and untouchable.

  He looked up at Tathea, the tears on his face wet only for a moment before they froze. “But what about the men who killed them?” he asked. “Are they lost for ever?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably. They can’t go home after this ... not as long as anybody knows what they did, and why ... the truth about the massacre of the village.”

  “You mean they’ll murder everyone who knows?” His face was ashen grey.

  “I don’t know. But that’s what Cassiodorus intends.”

  “What can we do?” It was a will to fight, and a cry for help. She shook her head. “I’m not certain. I wish I were. I wish I knew how far we were from the end ... what’s happened to the others ...”

  Ardesir put out his hand quickly and took hers. He was shuddering with cold, and yet there was warmth in the gesture that neither the snow, nor the east wind could destroy.

  “Just go on,” he said firmly. “These have won, and the others aren’t lost yet. But even if they were, there comes a time to let go.” He rose to his feet. “Come on. We’ve a long way to catch up.”

  Cassiodorus led the army to destroy the barbarian camp exactly as he had said he would, and then on again to victory after victory until the barbarians were decimated, their women and children driven into the forests. Even their horses were scattered to the hills, which were now sheeted with snow in the deepening winter.

  The Camassian borders were safe from invasion again and the people could begin to rebuild. The army began to return to the City in the Centre of the World. Less than half the men who had set out were fit for the long march home. Another thousand at feast would follow later, when they were able, but many were maimed, blind or disfigured. Above all they had memories of slaughter that had crippled their souls. They had seen and done things that they could not bring back or undo, and all the wine, the violence, the excuses, the celebrations did not expunge from them the nightmares that each lapse of vigilance allowed back. Cassiodorus had won, and the victory shone in his face, in the wide, bold smile on his mouth.

  It was over a month before they entered the City, and immediately a triumphal march was planned so that all Camassians could celebrate the release from the grasp of fear. Everywhere there was excitement, jubilation, wild words of praise for the returning heroes. Nothing was too good, too rare or too expensive to give them. They were the saviours of the nation, more, of all mankind. Camassia had turned the tide for civilisation.

  Tathea and Ardesir came in quietly. Their triumph was far smaller, a few score of souls who had fought and died terrible deaths for the light they had grasped, a few hundred more who had seen some kind of honour better than simple slaughter, and perhaps returned wiser or braver than they had left. But there was no boasting to be done, no flags to wave, no flowers to throw, even had it been summer, and blooms for the picking.

  They separated themselves from the other camp followers with a brief goodbye, and walked side by side throughout the busy streets, speaking to no one. This was a day to release all the pent-up waiting and fear. Tomorrow was time enough to look more closely, and perhaps think of grief.

  In spite of her weariness and her blistered feet, Tathea found herself walking more and more rapidly along the familiar streets. They were easy to tread after the long, uneven country roads of the march home. They had heard no news of the rest of the world all the long campaign. There had been no word of the Island, the Lost Lands, not even of Shinabar. And she knew nothing of Ishrafeli. It was the thought of him, which she had tried to keep from her mind all the bitter, weary days of the fighting, which now willed her feet up the flights of steps towards the house, even though her muscles were shot with pain and her chest ached to catch her breath. She did not even think of Ardesir a yard behind her, nor stop to wonder what he hoped for.

  She threw the door open and was dizzy with joy when she saw Ishrafeli standing in the room beyond. The winter sun was clean and hard on the lines in his face, his cheek, his mouth as he smiled slowly, allowing himself at last to believe the moment was come.

  She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, feeling his grip around her so strong it hurt, and yet nothing could be close enough. The ache of familiarity was in the smell, the taste, the touch of his skin, the sound of his voice even before he spoke. And yet the memory and the dream of him had been so powerful she had to pull away and look into his face to assure herself of the reality, wait for him to speak, to say something unforeseen and beyond the control of her longing.

  He looked at her very carefully. “It isn’t your battle to win or lose,” he said at last. He kissed her gently again and again. “And we haven’t time for the self-indulgence of guilt,” he added with a wry smile. “I think the end is coming swiftly.”

  She stared at him. “Is it?” She was frightened now. She wanted more time to share with him, to think, to plan, to find a way to bear the future.

  “I believe so,” he answered. “I’m afraid too, but what lies ahead is far, far better than anything that could be behind.” He took both her hands in his, then suddenly closed his eyes as the knowledge of what was to come overwhelmed him, and it was she who held him close in her arms and could not let him go.

  Cassiodorus led his triumphal march into the City at the head of the entire army and the people went wild with relief after the terror of the months of waiting. The streets were jammed with young and old cheering, waving banners, calling out. Ribbons flew from every window, children were carried aloft, girls threw kisses, scarce winter flowers and sweetmeats at the feet of the soldiers.

  Cassiodorus rode a red horse and his armour was beaten and scarred, stained with blood, but still the bronze studs gleamed in the fitful sunlight and his golden hair curled like
an aureole around his head.

  The cheers were deafening.

  Behind him came the pick of the legions, red-crested helmets tossing, cloaks ragged, stained, but swinging as they strode, broadswords at their sides.

  After them came the recruits drawn in because of the national peril. They had left home as ordinary men. Now they had tasted a whole new world of terror and exhaustion and had learned things they could never put away. They looked neither to right nor left, avoiding the eyes of their fellow citizens, and in front of them they carried long poles, each topped with the decapitated head of a barbarian, some women, some even children. Above a score of them looked up triumphantly at the thing he bore as a trophy.

  Tathea turned to Ishrafeli beside her and remembered another time when they had seen the beginning of a war, in a world apart from this. The only likeness between then and now was that Cassiodorus had been there also, and she had looked at his face and seen the triumph in it because he knew that destruction was certain, and the undying evil in him had fed on it. He had sworn he would remember her for ever. Here, today, he was keeping that promise.

  They were in front of the forum where once the Emperors had taken the salute. Now Cassiodorus reined in his red horse and dismounted so he could climb the steps.

  The crowd ceased its roaring, faces turned towards him, waiting. At this moment he could have asked anything of them at all, and they would have given it to him.

  Tathea glanced at Ardesir, perhaps a dozen yards away. His face was pinched with revulsion and the lines from nose to mouth were deeply carved, his lips drawn tight as if he tasted defeat and the hurt of it were draining his strength. She longed to comfort him, but the distance was too great for her to cross without drawing the attention of the crowd waiting for Cassiodorus. And even if she were beside him, there was nothing that she had not already said.

  Cassiodorus raised his arms, the muscles of his shoulders bulging under the tunic and the armour. The crowd was silent.

  “My fellow citizens of Camassia!” His voice rang clearly, every word distinct. “Salute your victories! Your men have marched into the unknown, beyond the threatened borders of our nation, and pursued the barbarian who would have engulfed us ... and beaten him in his own land!”

  A wave of sound rose almost like a wall, cheering, shouting, whistling, and he let it roar around him as a tide of water, buoying him up. It had all but spent itself before he signalled for them to let him continue.

  “We have driven the barbarian back into the wilderness where he belongs!” he cried. “And in such a way he will not lightly come upon us again. But—and I say this to you as your friend—he is not beaten for ever! We have shown even the proud Shinabar that civilisation can win! At least Camassia can ...”

  He was overtaken by another burst of cheering, and his smile showed he welcomed it. He waited until they were quiet again before continuing.

  “... but we must remain on our guard. There are other barbarians. Irria-Kand has fallen and already become a wilderness, as we would have. But we have beaten them, and we can do it again, if—” he held up his hands, palms upward—“if we keep our strength, our courage and belief in our cause. We must remain loyal, above all else.” He stopped long enough for another great cry of agreement to roar up from the crowd.

  He glanced over towards Tathea.

  “We must purge ourselves of the traitors amongst us who would yield to pandering to the enemy, to telling the lies that subvert, weaken and in the end betray.”

  The crowd was puzzled. There was hesitation, then the slow, ugly rumble of anger.

  “You can hardly believe me?” Cassiodorus raised his voice till it seemed to reverberate from the great walls of the furthest buildings around the forum and wash back over them, penetrating to the heart. “And yet it is true! Ask your own husbands, fathers, brothers! Ask them if there was not a woman among the camp followers who went from man to man, seeking to convince them the barbarian was human, a man like themselves! Ask them! It is the final war, my friends, good against evil, for the survival of mankind. And it is as old as sin itself.”

  The crowd remained silent, frightened, huddled together.

  “Look to your history!” he shouted, his face darkening. “She was among you even in the days of the great Isadorus! She tried to weaken him, to unman him of his courage and his decision. It was she—Tathea—who led the great Alexius into Shinabar, and finally to the Island at the Edge of the World where he was murdered in her cause. And she is here again!” He flung out his arm, pointing at her.

  Every head in the crowd turned.

  Ishrafeli tightened his arm around Tathea, his body shielding hers.

  But it was Ardesir who stepped forward, walking up the steps as if he had been invited. The confidence in his manner was so great that no one reached out to prevent him, or even to question who he was. He stopped half a dozen steps up, just short of Cassiodorus, and turned to face the crowd.

  “Cassiodorus is right: this is the final war between good and evil!” His voice also carried, but it was the passion in it, the fierce, driving certainty that held them. “What is lost now will remain lost for ever.”

  There was a growl of anxiety, fear mounting in the crowd.

  Tathea stared up at his face. Surely he must know he had not long before Cassiodorus would stop him? A few moments at most.

  “But good and evil do not struggle for cities or land,” he went on. “Not even for the life or death of man. This is the real war we are in, the eternal one that is for victories far greater than the things of this world.” His face grew suddenly tender. “The beautiful, ephemeral things we touch and hold so dear.” He leaned forward over the rail of the steps. “This is for our souls! We are not fighting for a few miles of territory, or a few years of peace or wealth. The end of this is heaven ... or hell! Glory goes on to eternity, to more and more perfect light and knowledge and a joy that has no measure. Damnation is the loss of every precious and beautiful thought, belief, every hope of love or life, every understanding of the ways of God.”

  Not a man or woman moved and all their faces were upturned towards him.

  “The Great Enemy is the master of lies,” he went on. “He would have you fight for the things you see, and use his weapons to do it, and so lose the real prize.”

  The rumble from the crowd grew louder. People stared from Ardesir to Cassiodorus, and back again.

  Cassiodorus made a move as if to attack, but some fire in Ardesir made him hesitate.

  Ardesir leaned further forward, his thin face alight. “It is not the miserable barbarian at the borders of the world who threatens you, the ignorant, shattered men and women whose heads are skewered on your spears. It is the barbarian in your own hearts that led you to pick up the weapons of atrocity.” He gestured towards the shrunken, bloody trophies still held aloft. “They know no better! They were savages who lived in the night. We stand in the full daylight, and yet we stooped to the same bestiality they did! That is the Great Enemy’s victory over us! Of course Tathea sought to save us from that! And she did save some. There were those who defied the order to massacre settlements that offered us no threat ... and Cassiodorus had them hacked to death for their mutiny.”

  The crowd was stunned, turning to one another in horror.

  “They were your own men,” Ardesir went on. “Ordinary citizens. I saw their bodies where they lay.” His voice broke but he was unashamed of his emotion. “And I saw the men who did it to them. You will find no one else who knows, because they killed them all lest they told you. But look in their eyes, and you will see the Enemy’s victory over them.”

  Cassiodorus would permit it no longer. He swivelled on his stand and took a step down towards Ardesir. His face was twisted with rage, and the hatred burned in him with such heat his skin glowed with it, his eyes blazed and the sun on his golden hair seemed to set it alight.

  Ardesir turned to face him. The courage he had sought all his life had come with the knowledge of
true darkness. Cassiodorus came down another step, and still Ardesir did not move nor did his glance waver. Cassiodorus was less than a foot from him.

  Ardesir smiled, as if he knew something Cassiodorus never would.

  Cassiodorus put out his hand, fist clenched, his thick lips drawn back to show his teeth. He was so close Ardesir must have felt the heat of his body and smelled the odour of his skin, the sweat, the stale blood on the leather of his armour.

  Cassiodorus’ fist touched Ardesir’s shoulder and the sneer on his lips grew wider.

  Tathea gripped Ishrafeli so tightly her nails dug into his skin and drew blood, but neither of them was aware of it.

  Cassiodorus lifted his fist and swung it wide, then smashed it across Ardesir’s head ... and the unbelievable happened: it went straight through as if his arm were an illusion, not flesh at all. Slowly horror filled his face. There was a gasp from the crowd. He drew back and lifted his other arm, but the awful knowledge was there inside him even before he tried to strike the blow.

  Ardesir understood. He reached his hand forward and laid it on Cassiodorus’ mighty forearm and saw the muscles ripple, waver and begin to dissolve.

  The crowd was frozen, struck dumb.

  Cassiodorus opened his mouth as if to scream, but the sound did not come.

  Tathea struggled to breathe, and beside her Ishrafeli was rigid.

  Ardesir spread both his arms wide.

  Not a soul in the crowd stirred.

  Ardesir closed his eyes and then clasped Cassiodorus, chest to chest, belly to belly, knee to knee, and Cassiodorus tried for a hideous moment to struggle, to loose himself from the grip, but his body was already melting like wax in a furnace. His armour was hollow, buckling, folding in on itself. The gauntlets and greaves fell off, the breastplate slid down.

  Very slowly Ardesir swayed, then he sank to his knees and collapsed forward to lie sprawled on the empty armour, his face stripped of all strength and filled instead with a peace beyond the power of earth or hell to touch.

  Ishrafeli took a step forward, then stopped. There was nothing for him to do now.