Come Armageddon

by Anne Perry

  For an instant cold poured through her, and she felt alien and alone in this strange silver-grey street with its towers rising against a luminous sky. Despair wrapped her in a darkness like a shadow of the night in which there is no dawn.

  She willed herself to remember the power of God in all things, and that He had promised never to leave her alone. She must believe it, know it every moment, waking and sleeping.

  “The Silver Lords devour the will,” Parminiar warned. His hand was gentle on her arm, and his thin fingers held surprising warmth. “They suck the freedom from the soul. When at last the end comes, it creeps like a velvet noose, a silken hand—the shadow so gossamer soft the ignorant skin welcomes its first beginnings.” His lips tightened. “I know them. And I have felt the breath of the Great Enemy as he comes closer, just as they have. But by the time they realise it is the one art wielded by the left hand and the right hand of the same demon, it will be too late.”

  “Not yet,” she said, shaking her head, refusing to look at anything but hope. “Take me to Timon. Persuade him to see me.”

  It proved as easy as Parminiar had said. They waited only a matter of an hour in a hall where curtains hid doors, and windows looked out on to narrow courtyards shafted with light, serried ranks of roofs at hectic angles sliding down to the far, silver light on the River. They were cared for with exquisite hospitality of sparkling wine and honey cakes, until Timon himself received them in his chamber high in the seven-sided tower, with wide windows in every wall.

  He was a huge man, powerful of body, but it was his face which fascinated Tathea. His features were strong, with broad nose and full lips, but wreathed in such folds of skin as to give his visage a unique strength, as if there were always a reserve beyond anything visible to the eye. Memory stirred inside her of peace and a great protection from all conflict. He was clothed in long robes of colour so subtle it was impossible to tell if it were blue or violet or some shade of wine, and it seemed to catch an echo of starlight in it, as if it were more than a woven fabric.

  He greeted the visitors with guarded courtesy and made no pretence at friendship with Parminiar. He introduced to them his lieutenant, a slender man named Armerio, with a dark and subtle face, who bowed once and then stood back.

  Timon looked at Tathea. “So you have returned at last from Camassia, now that ruin has spread over the centre of the world, and grows even closer to us,” he observed, his voice dark and beautiful, like that of so many in Lantrif. She remembered its richness also, but she could not place it. The emotions it carried were of almost transcending power, sheet lightning of the heart. She was too stunned by it to reply before he continued.

  “What is it you wish of me?” he asked her. “If you come to warn us, it is unnecessary. We have known for years that the evil was waiting. Perhaps now we see it more clearly than you do.”

  She forced herself to concentrate. She must speak with intelligence and honesty to this master of sorcery. They desired the same end; she must persuade him to cast aside the weapons which prevented any alliance between them.

  “I know you need no warning of armies of men, nor of the intention of Asmodeus to ruin the earth,” she answered him, trying to measure her words. “But I have seen his weapons and I know something of what may be used against them.”

  He smiled very slightly, as if from a bitter amusement. “You have been listening to Parminiar. The Brotherhood of the Chain have cast aside the powers of the mind in favour of those of the sword. If they are willing to ally with you, I wish fortune to both of you, although I do not believe you will succeed.” His eyes were bright and unreadable. “The evil you face is beyond the nature of this world and needs higher arts to combat it. It surprises me you do not know that.”

  “Of course I know it!” she said a little too tartly, stung by his condescension. “Men cannot bind Asmodeus, whatever our arts or our knowledge. He will turn the tools of sorcery against us and bring our defeat more swiftly than if we leave him alone.”

  Timon’s eyebrows rose but his voice held only the ghost of sarcasm—no more was needed. “You have presided over the desolation of half the world, and more, and you can come here to Lantrif and tell me how to save my people?”

  Tathea brought only news of failure with her, and she was surrounded here by a wall of their beliefs like steel, yet she knew she spoke the truth. It rang in her reply with the passion of a victor, not a woman alone, shorn of kingdom, followers or a single disciple to support her faith.

  “The war is bigger than this world, and older,” she answered him. “At the last, when we are face to face with the end, the only weapon of any use is the love of God. Trust in Him, no matter how thick the darkness or how hard the way. When you are stripped of all your own weapons, your strength is gone, then ask of God, and listen to His answer and obey it. Seeing doesn’t matter any more. Only faith and love will be enough.”

  “Beautiful,” Timon answered, laughter in his eyes wreathed with the heavy folds of his skin. “But naïve.”

  Parminiar opened his mouth to defend her, but Timon silenced him with a gesture of his arm. His voice was iron hard. “The Silver Lords yield their will to no one. We have always been our own masters, since the dawn of time. We will not abandon the skills which have served us all our existence. You trust God to rescue you if you wish. We shall do battle with the Great Enemy with the weapons of knowledge and power in our hands.”

  Tathea struggled to find some argument to sway him. There was a darkness moving in her mind, knowledge of a small thing forever growing, gathering strength and coming closer with every passing second. Memory came at last like the descending night. She saw a great amphitheatre at sunset, Ishrafeli with a harp in his hand, and a young poet choosing the passion and the grief of life rather than the closed womb of Eden. It was Timon then, under his old name, Ikthari who had promised her the ashes of death.

  Timon was staring at her now, here in Lantrif. She was as conscious of him as if he held her in an embrace. She heard Parminiar’s voice in the distance, indistinct, muffled. She was so cold she could barely feel her hands or feet.

  Then the moment broke, and Timon was speaking again.

  “A terrible and final evil has followed you here to the City of the Fallen Kings,” he said softly. “It is in Lantrif already, and is growing closer, even as we stand here. It is an emissary of the Great Enemy himself.”

  Followed her here! So he was not here already. Or was it someone else who had come—Ulciber, perhaps? Surely Asmodeus would gather all his forces for the final confrontation?

  “I knew there was a body of men,” Timon was continuing, “armed and on the River, but I had not until this moment understood who they brought with them.” He glanced at Parminiar. “The Brotherhood knows this also, surely?”

  Parminiar nodded. “We know of their coming. Now I too understand who is with them. I feel the chill of it on my soul. We must ride against them. They have come for Ta-Thea.” He moved a step closer to her, as if he would protect her even more. “She is the first cause of their enmity because it was she who brought the Book into the world with the Word of God in it, and told us who we are, and who we may become. She still knows in her heart more than any of us. But we ride as sons of God, and we carry only the swords and lances of earthly make.”

  Timon drew in his breath, then let it out in a sigh. There was a strange authority in Parminiar, gaunt as he was—little more than sinew and bone under his cloak—but the strength of his spirit filled the room.

  “We will not stand against you nor bar your way,” Timon promised. “We will wait here, to celebrate with you should you succeed, or to defend the City and its people, should you fail.”

  Chapter XXII

  LITTLE MORE THAN TWO score men rode out with Parminiar at their head, and Tathea with them. They would meet the enemy on the open road where they could fight unhampered by the narrow streets of the City of Fallen Kings, and without endangering the ordinary men and women who lived ther
e. And they wanted above all a battle clean from the arts of the Silver Lords, whose aid, in whatever cause, was still a tool of Asmodeus.

  Word reached them of the enemy troops approaching. They came on the only road that led to the City, westwards, inland from the River, coiled through the valleys and past the towns that nestled by the water. It climbed the steep slopes of the hills and down again. They came willingly, with courage high, knowing who Tathea was, and had always been. Their hearts were set to defend her with their lives if necessary, but they wore only the armour wrought by ordinary hands, and the belief in their cause. They expected victory, but they knew it might very well also be death, and not one flinched from it.

  They saw the riders coming towards them as still only a dark patch crowding the road over two miles away, in the green distance of the valley. Without the need for command, the Brotherhood drew into closer order, ready for battle, and increased pace a little, so they would reach a place of advantage when they met the enemy and could ride downhill to the charge. There was no sound but the clip of hoofs on the road and the jingle of harnesses and armour, which was not bronze like the Camassians,’ nor copper like the ghosts of the Shinabari in Tathea’s mind, but silver. Their banners were white and decorated with the single device of a linked chain.

  The scouts and outriders watched for a surprise attack. Everyone else faced forward, as if there were nothing and nobody else on earth but the two columns closing on each other, lances high, swords still sheathed.

  The awareness of evil was so heavy inside Tathea that she was surprised that it did not muffle sound. She could still breathe, and the air should have choked in her throat. She was sweating, though the day was not hot.

  She had ridden armed like this before, but if it was Ulciber who led the foe, outrider and herald for Asmodeus, then perhaps this was the last time she would hold a sword in her hand. She wanted to be on her own feet to wield it in the old way as Alexius had taught her.

  But there was no choice. They were increasing pace already and their advance would end in a charge. At least it was good to have a fine animal under her, as good as a desert horse. It felt almost like the beginning, over five hundred years ago, when she had ridden away from Thoth-Moara and begun the search for the knowledge of good and evil.

  Perhaps that search would end here on this road in Lantrif as she came face to face again with Asmodeus. How trivial that after all it should be a battle with such human things as swords!

  The other force rode proudly. They held silver banners aloft like a guard of honour, but they also had their lances lifted and as they came closer they too increased their speed.

  The leader of the guard called out a challenge, or perhaps it was a command. It was in the ancient language of the River and she did not understand it.

  Parminiar raised his hand to halt them, but the captain of the first twenty ignored it, spurring his horse forward, and with a great cry they all broke into a gallop. Battle was joined with a crash of lances, splinters flying high, then the clang of sword on sword. Tathea was lost in the mêlée, wheeling and striking, backing, lunging again like all the others.

  The struggle was short and savage, fought with passion, courage and ruthlessness. It was over as suddenly as it had begun, with the knights of the Brotherhood victorious. The captain of the twenty who had given the command to charge stood with his sword point at the throat of the enemy leader.

  Parminiar stared down at him. “Why do you ride against your own people?” he demanded in a choking voice. “What manner of evil is it you conceive that you can do this? You poison the air you breathe!”

  “We don’t attack our own!” the enemy leader retaliated furiously, ignoring the sword. “We ride only as an escort of honour to our lord!” He gestured wildly. Tathea turned to follow it as did all the others.

  Dusty, his face smeared with blood, Ishrafeli staggered to his feet, half supporting a wounded man in his arms.

  Tathea’s heart soared on wings like an ascending bird. She dropped the reins and slid from her horse, but before she had taken the first step towards him, the captain of twenty behind her called out again.

  “Stop her! Protect her ... above all!”

  She swung back to protest, to explain, and saw his face directly for the first time. Fear drenched her, dagger-bright with foreknowledge of pain. He was Timon’s lieutenant, Armerio. He was one of the Silver Lords who had infiltrated himself into the Brotherhood to betray them. She turned to Ishrafeli. He was looking at her, his eyes wide.

  Armerio spoke again, his voice silencing them all. “She is Ta-Thea, the bringer of the Book to the world. We must protect her—at any cost.” He pointed to Ishrafeli, now risen to his feet. “He is a servant of the Great Enemy who would destroy her. His hatred for her will never die, because she carries the Word of God. It was the shadow of his coming that touched us with darkness.”

  It was an exquisite weaving of truth and lies, the sorcerer’s art to deceive with reality.

  The men of the Brotherhood moved towards Ishrafeli with swords drawn, and it would have been death for him to resist.

  “He is not!” Tathea shouted, flinging herself free from the hands that restrained her. “He is Ishrafeli, my husband!” She twisted round to face the men she had ridden with and fought beside. “You know him!” she shouted. “He is Kor-Assh, your own lord! In the name of God ... look at him!”

  “He only looks like Kor-Assh!” Armerio’s voice drowned hers. “Sorcerers can look like anyone.” He stared at his men, his face beseeching. “Can’t you feel the evil? Trust your hearts, not your eyes! No one can deceive what you know in your heart.”

  “He’s not!” Tathea cried desperately, struggling now not to be dragged backwards away from Ishrafeli. She swung round to Parminiar. “He’s not! He’s my husband! He would never harm me!”

  But Parminiar was nowhere in sight, and the others did not hear her. Strong arms held her. Armerio offered her his own flask and it was pressed to her lips. She gasped and drank from it and its fire filled her throat before she caught the sweet, hazy taste of drugs.

  Dimly she saw Ishrafeli forced to stand while his hands were bound behind his back and he was lifted on to his horse, the bridle held by another.

  She faced Armerio, tears running down her cheeks. She drew in her breath to plead with him, and the words died inside her. The sight she saw was terrible beyond her imagining. He stood cold and still, his skin white, his eyes void as the pits of hell, and she felt herself drawn in as if she were moving physically towards him, closer, suffocating, endlessly down.

  She heard in the distance someone charging Ishrafeli with the highest crime left an earth: that of attempting to bring about the death of the Lady Ta-Thea, the last hope of the world against the Great Enemy. He would be taken back to the City of the Fallen Kings for trial.

  Her head whirled. Heat like fire scorched her skin. She was falling. Armerio’s eyes were huge, consuming her, burning with red flame, and beyond the flames, vast, endless, hideous slime. All the strength drained out of her and she pitched forward. Harsh, wild laughter banged and whipped her ears, then there was darkness at last.

  The trial was held in the Great Hall in the Seven-Sided Tower, and representatives of all the people of Lantrif were there. It was a grey and silver day with the sun slanting through the tall windows on to the polished stone floor and picking out the carving on the high-backed ceremonial seats of the judges and the jury.

  Ishrafeli was unbound, but he was kept apart by the ornate rails of a boxed-in space reserved for the accused. Tathea was similarly restrained, although her gaolers were termed a guard of honour. She was the most important woman in the world, the Bringer of the Book, and the prime target of the Great Enemy who would destroy all mankind. For the sake of the world she must be kept safe by all the powers and the arts of Lantrif, at the cost of their own lives, if necessary. No argument, no pleading she could offer made the slightest difference. She was as helpless to prevent any of this
farce as was Ishrafeli himself.

  She stood between her guards, white-faced and in agony of heart. The silver inlaid doors to the chamber opened wide, and the exquisitely robed judge came through and climbed the steps to his seat. Only when he turned and faced the court did she recognise him, the beauty of his countenance untouched by aeons of time: Ulciber, the Lord of Corruption, here all the time in the City of Fallen Kings.

  He looked at her levelly for several seconds. Then, his blue-grey eyes wide and bright, he turned to Ishrafeli and his smile was slow and sickly sweet with triumph. At that moment Tathea knew there would be no escape, no rescue. It was like the closing of an inner door, final and complete.

  The proceedings began. Witnesses were called to tell of Tathea’s arrival in Lantrif. Parminiar, hollow-eyed and in a voice like that of despair, told how the Lamia, creature of sorcery, knowing who Tathea was, had tried to drown her.

  Ulciber leaned forward. “And yet you were there, and had power to rescue her?” he said softly.

  Parminiar lifted his head. “Good always has power over evil!” he said fiercely.

  “How did you know to be on deck at that precise moment?” Ulciber enquired, his voice clear and light, carrying to every corner of the court. “Did you have some presentiment? Is that part of the power of good to protect this woman who is at the heart of the ultimate war?” He glanced at Ishrafeli and away again.

  “Of course!” Parminiar’s words stung with their anger and their certainty. “Would not the powers of good give us the weapons we need?”

  A shadow crossed Ulciber’s face, fear and victory at the same instant.

  Tathea looked at Ishrafeli and met his eyes. She saw a terrible understanding of the betrayal vanish and be replaced by love alone.

  Ulciber was still speaking. “So the power of good warned you, and you were in the right place, at the exact moment the Lamia struck?” he said to Parminiar.