Come Armageddon Read online

  Come Armageddon

  Anne Perry

  To all those who helped with ideas, time given, and above all love and belief:

  My mother

  Meg Davis

  Don Maass

  Meg MacDonald

  Elder Alexander Morrison

  Elizabeth Sweeney

  Ken Weir

  My brother, for the title

  Thank you all.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  The Book

  Prologue

  THE STAFF WAS STANDING alone, upright on the forest floor. Tathea stared at it in wonder and then with a sharp prickle of excitement and awe. Even in the muted light through the canopy of trees she could see that it was carved down the shaft in tiny hieroglyphs.

  On tiptoe she walked over to look more closely. They were in six separate groups. She tried to read the first, but it made no sense, nor did the second, nor the third. It was only when she came to the last one that the words were as clear as fire in the mind: “when the woman of love has kneeled in the ashes and taken up My burden, then shall I come and receive My own.”

  She reached out her hand to take the staff, and as she did so it leaned away from her, southwards, towards the edge of the forest where she had not been able to pass in five hundred years. Was this the time, now, at last?

  She clutched it and started to walk, shivering a little. She had an appointment to keep, not just for herself but for every living thing, the present and the past. She stepped over the gnarled roots twisted into the ancient soil. Urgency impelled her. She started to run, climbing an incline and slithering down, splashing through a stream.

  A fallow deer lifted its head at her approach and then sprang off into the shadows of hazel and birch.

  Tathea’s mind was filled with memory. She could see the place on the soul’s journey where she and Ishrafeli had parted as if it were around her now, the dark slope down to the water’s edge, the glimmer of starlight over the sea and Sardonaris on the horizon. The skiff had lain at its moorings ready. She had had the Book in her arms. She had expected Ishrafeli to return with her to carry its burden to the world, and instead he had told her the one truth she had never imagined. He was an angel. His time was not yet. But he had promised that one day he would come and take his mortal life, and together they would fight the last terrible war against Asmodeus, the Great Enemy. If they won, then the world would be resurrected into a glory and a joy beyond the heart to dream. It would become the habitation of God for time everlasting, and for all those who in their testing had loved Him with undivided heart.

  And if they lost, then Asmodeus would make it the seat of dominion to rule and ruin all other worlds he could reach, spreading an ever-widening misery until the light faded across the universe and darkness owned them.

  Tathea was running faster now, brushing past whipping branches and over stones and ruts, her feet soundless on the dark earth. Briars reached out and tore at her clothes and she ignored them. Old prophecies thundered through her mind. In her memory she was back in the desert of Shinabar again, the hot sand abrading her skin, the light dazzling, and Iszamber’s voice telling her that in the final war, when nations plunged into violence and desolation, still the Island at the Edge of the World would stand, because here the light of faith would never be entirely quenched.

  It was here that the warriors would be nurtured who would fight Armageddon. One king would unite the warring tribes long enough for the truth to be taught again. The Book would be unsealed and the old glories of the light of God would harrow men’s souls, and fire such faith in them as would rekindle the stars.

  And at the very last, Asmodeus would be able to walk the earth, and she must take the keys of the world from him before God could renew all things into eternity.

  Another clearing opened in front of her, larger than the last, but here there was no sunlight on the grass. She hesitated and looked up. The sky was dark with scudding clouds, and a cold wind whipped the tops of the trees. She felt its breath on her skin like ice. She was glad to reach the far side where the stinging edge was broken.

  Tathea was on a path now, and the trees were less dense. There were elders, white with flowers, dizzying scent; ash and wild cherry.

  The first hailstones struck so viciously it seemed as if the pellets of ice must leave bruises on her flesh. Stumbling, teeth clenched, she ran on, half blinded. Whatever the storm, she must not stop. Everything depended upon her being there in time.

  Thunder rumbled around the skirts of heaven, then, without warning, cracked above her with ear-shattering sound. Flights of birds shot out of the trees, whirling up against the sullen sky and small animals fled for cover, huddling under logs and stones in terror.

  Lightning forked down. A tree exploded in a sheet of fire. It swayed for a breathless moment, then crashed down across the path in front of her, trailing gaudy ribbons of flame which caught other branches and blazed up, roaring, crackling, spreading wide.

  She stopped abruptly, scrambling to keep her balance. She could not retrace her steps. She would have to force her way through the undergrowth to go round it.

  The wind was harder, rising to a high, shrill whine in the upper branches, whipping them back and forth as it changed direction, snapping them off and catching them whirling up in the air.

  Tathea wanted to find any lee side of a bank where she could crouch down and protect herself. There were plenty of places. She knew the forest, its heart and its nature. She loved its great trees, its slender saplings, and every creature in it. It had fed and sheltered her for five centuries. If she turned back, maybe this terrible destruction would end. Perhaps there was another way? She stood motionless, her hand clenched on the staff.

  When she tried to pull it back, it would not move. It would yield only southward, drawing her on.

  She stumbled over fallen branches across the path. Ahead of her the trees thinned, white wood showing in great wounds where the storm had ripped branches away.

  Now she was at the path’s end. Beyond was open land. She hesitated, afraid. The moment had come. If she could walk beyond the last tree, then the forest no longer held her. It truly was the beginning.

  The sky was purple-dark, heavy-bellied with hail. Behind her she heard the scream of the wind and the crash as another tree was rent from the earth. Lightning flared, and ahead she saw the figure of a woman coming towards her, floundering as if heavy-laden and near exhaustion.

  The moment of indecision passed. The woman was in need. Tathea went towards her swiftly, away from the forest edge, free from its hold. There was no sense of surprise, no barrier. The storm, the piercing cold, the rage in the sky, told her that the earth itself knew the waiting was ended.

  She reached the woman and in the livid, fading light saw why she had moved so awkwardly. She was heavy with child, and close to the time of birth. Her clothes were torn, stained with mud and blood and the dark smears of burning. Smoke streaked her face, and her eyes were grief-hollowed.

  Tathea clasped her, taking some of her weight. The woman was shuddering with exhaustion. Her clothes wrapped around her thighs, the
long, wet skirts tangling every movement.

  “Gently! Gently!” Tathea urged her. “There’s no one behind you.”

  But the woman struggled on towards the outlying trees. “I must reach Hirioth,” she gasped, fighting to keep her balance as pain shot through her and she stumbled, almost dragging Tathea down with her.

  “You can’t,” Tathea told her more clearly, forcing her to stop. “Your time is come. I’ll look after you. I know a little of birth.” She remembered, with the old, heart-consuming ache, her own child, and the moment of drenching horror when she had discovered his small, blood-soaked body, the night of the coup in Shinabar. The tightening of the throat, the pain through the body was always the same.

  But there was no time for the past.

  The woman had a strange and subtle face with a beauty unlike any other.

  “Who are you?” she said in little more than a whisper as another spasm grasped her.

  “Tathea,” she answered. “But you must rest. The rain has stopped, and you will be dry under the trees here.”

  The woman stared at her, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “Come!” Tathea urged, pulling at her arm.

  “Tathea?” The word was spoken with awe, as if there were magic in the sound of it.

  “Yes. Please come! You have not long.”

  The woman’s eyes clouded. “I know,” she said softly. “I shall not live to raise my child, not even to hold him in my arms.” Again the spasm took her and she sank to her knees, holding herself, rocking back and forth.

  “Yes, you will!” Tathea kneeled beside her, clasping her as she fought to control herself. “It will seem terrible, but it will pass.”

  “No ...” The word came between clenched teeth. “I have come too far, my strength is gone. But I had to ... to reach Hirioth. Now I know why.” She let out a cry and gripped Tathea’s hand so hard it was as if she could transfer her own pain.

  Tathea held on to her. A great feeling flooded through her that the woman was right and a stupid and futile denial would comfort no one.

  “Sardo ...” The woman continued after a moment. “Sardo gave his life to help me escape the city. He loved me, and he knew the child ...” Again she had to stop to give herself over to the pain. “Will you tell him about us?” she asked after a few more moments. “My name is Mairin. I am sister to Aelfrith, Earl of the Eastern Shore. My husband was Sardo ...” She gulped and her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was only hours since he had died.

  Tathea held her closer, feeling the pain reach through her, aware of Mairin’s failing strength, the violent beating of her heart. She ached for her that she would hold her child for no more than a few moments before she would have to trust him to a stranger to guard and protect his life, to nurture him, teach him, and above all to love him as she would have.

  Tathea knew that this child was to be the king who would unite the Island, so no more women would have to flee ruined cities because of war with neighbouring tribes or pirate raids from the Sea Isles. He was the one who would create a golden age before the great and final war. The violence in the shattered forest had told her that, and her freedom at last to leave its bounds, to walk beyond its keeping and into the world.

  Though her strength was ebbing fast, Mairin spoke of her youth, and how she had met Sardo, and how they had loved each other. Then her body convulsed and the moment of birth came. There was no more time left.

  An hour later Tathea stood in the fading glory of the evening light with the baby in her arms, wrapped in pieces of Mairin’s robe.

  Mairin had held him herself for a few moments, touched his face, and named him Sadokhar. Now she lay in her final peace, her blood-stained gown her winding sheet, and Tathea could do nothing for her but pull some of the broken branches to cover her, and think how she would care for her son.

  She had only just taken the first steps towards the distant village, when she saw the man coming up the rise, his black hair blown by the wind. He was slender, strong, and he moved with unusual grace as though his feet barely touched the ground.

  For a moment Tathea’s heart knocked with a familiarity so sharp it pierced her with a physical pain.

  He was close to her now and she could see his face, the broad brow and chiselled features, the blazing blue eyes.

  Of course she knew him. Her soul had known him since before the creation of the world. He was the Great Enemy, Asmodeus himself, walking the earth like a man.

  He stopped in front of her and looked at the child in her arms.

  “Sadokhar,” he said softly, as if he knew him already.

  Tathea held the baby so closely he seemed almost part of her. Asmodeus could not harm him physically, and yet she could smell her own fear. Why had he torn up the forest, breaking and wounding it, if not to prevent her reaching Mairin in time, and saving the child?

  Asmodeus was smiling. “Sadokhar,” he repeated with infinite satisfaction. He held up his left hand and in it was a bunch of keys, heavy and dull-gleaming black.

  She stared at them, transfixed.

  “The keys of this world,” he told her. “The power and the dominion of it.” He leaned a little forward. “It is mine! And neither you nor that child will take it from me—nor Ishrafeli, when he comes.”

  Her lips were dry, her heart pounding. “If God wills it, we can do anything,” she said huskily.

  “‘Can’?” The word was a challenge, a cry of derision. “Maybe you can ... but you won’t!” He looked at the child again. “He won’t! You remember nothing, but I have known each of you since the foundation of heaven.” He held up the keys again. “The earth is mine!” Then he turned on his heel and strode away.

  She heard his laughter, thin and hard like a knife blade into the flesh, and a moment later she was alone in the wind and the sunset, and the child began to cry.

  Legs shaking, Tathea walked away from the vast prison and shelter that was Hirioth, and into the world.

  Chapter I

  TATHEA LOOKED AT SADOKHAR beside her, then at Sardriel and Ardesir opposite. All the tables in the Great Hall were crowded with the scores of warriors and advisers who served the castle and city. The torches in the hall burned low, casting shadows on the coffered ceiling and sending a golden glow on to the bronze of half-empty bowls of fruit and the curves of wine glasses. The sounds of laughter and conversation filled the air. The embers of the fire faded and the dogs stirred hopefully, looking for scraps.

  It had been twenty-eight years since Tathea had left Hirioth, bringing with her only the staff and the golden Book of the word of God. Sadokhar was a grown man and he had accomplished all that she had promised Mairin he would, and all that she had dreamed for him herself. Some of it had been savage—war and reprisal. She still shivered at the memory of Cunaglass’s rebellion and how Sadokhar had hunted him down and, in his rage at the needless ruin and death he had caused, the betrayal of those who had trusted him, had slashed off his head with a sword, and painted his name across the fortress walls with his hair dipped in his own blood. If Sadokhar regretted it he had never said so.

  But the Island at the Edge of the World was united at last after two centuries of strife. For nearly ten years there had been peace. The old and the young walked in the open without fear. No one was hungry or sick and went uncared for. Justice was swift, but anyone might plead their cause before the King and be heard.

  This beautiful city of Tyrn Vawr had been built, and artists and poets, philosophers and dreamers, architects and musicians lived here, dined and talked far into the night in Sadokhar’s hall. The learning and the wit of the world found their way here at one time or another.

  Four years ago had come Sardriel, Lord of the Lost Lands, to pledge peace with the King of the Island. Sadokhar had liked him immediately, drawn to the love of truth in him. Tathea had watched his quiet face, with its high cheekbones and cool, intelligent eyes, and seen the passion in the curve of his mouth. She felt in him a strength of the spirit and a fire in the mind,
and she grew increasingly sure that he was one of the warriors foretold in the dim days of her waiting, who would come in the evening of time to fight the last great war.

  Sadokhar had read the first hieroglyph on the staff when they were still in Hirioth, as she had known he would—“when the man of courage enters and leaves where I am not.” He had looked at her, his grey eyes puzzled, aware only of mystery. Many times since he had asked her to explain, but finally he had understood that it was something that could be grasped only when the knowledge was already in the heart.

  One quiet evening a year after Sardriel had come, when Tathea had glimpsed the patience in him and the swift, secret moments of loneliness as well as the brilliance of mind, she had shown the staff to him. He had taken it in his hands, turning it over, marvelling at the workmanship of it, and he had read the third inscription—“when the man of truth hungers for a lie, and casts it to the deep.”

  He had said nothing. He was older than Sadokhar had been, less impetuous, and she did not need to tell him that only time and battle could teach him to understand it. Now that battle was already darkening the horizon.

  From that time onward he had returned to Tyrn Vawr every few months, leaving the stewardship of the Lost Lands with his cousin and ally.

  A year after Sardriel had read the inscription, Ardesir had come from Shinabar, and before that from the southern deserts of Pera. When Sadokhar, in his wilder youth, had for a space rejected the high calling he felt Tathea had placed upon him, they had quarrelled, and she had left him on the Eastern Shore with his mother’s people. She had gone back to the centre of the world alone, and then on to Shinabar. It was then she had met the younger Ardesir, still afire with ideas, a man of laughter and imagination, an architect who held visions of building palaces, arches and towers of the mind as well as of stone. He sought in the perfection of form and purpose a meaning that could be held in a single grasp. They had been friends, savouring together the subtlety and laughter of Shinabari art, the long desert evenings, the smell of the night wind off the endless sands, sweet wine and bitter herbs, the intricacy of the old ways.