Unbelievably, the Fortress had survived in some recognizable condition. It was little more than a huge cinder on a plain of blackened ash now, but one could still make out the shape of its hexagonal walls. The machinery that had lived within the Fortress, and which had been built to contain the Powers, had melted and run out into the center court, filling it and solidifying. The basic shell of the Fortress remained, dead and barren, and its vast dimensions would serve as an appropriately monumental tombstone for the armies that had fought and died on the Yards.
The wreck of Gateway and the Yards cooled, undisturbed for the better part of three months. The ashen soil of the plain on the west bank of the Tyne was lifted by the winds of summer and early fall, exposing, in spots, the white gleamings of ancient bones; in some places, large chunks of earth had been gouged away to display whole skeletons in the remains of their millennial armor; some of the skeletal hands still held rust-covered swords, newly bloodied.
When the dust storms had reburied the remains of the first Tyne Apocalypse and had at least spread a thin coating of dust over the rotting remains of the second, and when all had cooled to a bearable temperature, a small speck appeared on the southwestern horizon of the Sea.
The dot grew larger. It was a raft, large and grim, painted in grays and blacks with occasional highlights of gold. All over the craft ran strange and oddly frightening figures and symbols; the armored fist and flying horse of Mourne were enthroned upon the raft's lofty transom piece. It was pulled by a squadron of aquatic half-men, all of the same, fish-like cast. They were green, though more of simple rot than of the green of life; they pulled the raft by steel cables which had been thoughtfully inserted into their bodies and looped around their artificially reinforced spines, tying them forever to it.
The repellent swimmers drew the raft past the hulk of the
Victory
and threaded the maze of islands until they reached what was left of Gateway's main quay. Finding a convenient spot, they came alongside, and the man who had been called Toriman debarked.
He was dressed in black metal, masterfully trimmed with fine, gold scroll-work. A scabbard made of hand-wrought silver in an open mesh fashion held a magnificent sword; heavy jewels were set into its pommel and many rune engravings could be seen running along its blade. The man who had been called the ghost of Miolnor IV carried his battle gear lightly, as if it had been made of silk instead of the finest steel.
The man Rome had called General Tenn walked from his barge and across the Yards.
The man who had been called Coral stopped to gaze at the still overpowering outlines of the
Victory;
then he looked around the east bank of the Tyne, for evidence was still to be found of the battle, the casings of half-melted guns, the shattered lances. The armored man sighed sadly, for many more had answered his invitation than he had anticipated; he thought briefly of a woman, lost many years ago, but instantly forced her from his mind. Too many men had found fragments of the First World still alive within them and had risen to the challenge. And they had almost won; but that did not matter, for they had but to fight a little—just enough to prove their faith, and then die—for them to win. Ah, but the metaphysical complications of it all were so tedious; the armored man nostalgically remembered the simplicity of life and death in the days of his youth and mortality.
But the victory that the East had won was a very personal one; one which extended no farther than the individual soul of each individual who had fallen at the Yards. Creation had been set aright and it was this man who had made sure that the Powers would be in a position of dominance. He had wiped out the flower of the East's fighting men; before him ran a heavily protected road that led straight into the strategic center of the World where seventy percent of its original population lay, helpless and spiritually naked.
The armored man made sure that all was well, all was dead. Pleased, he strode over to a cracked and blackened stone heap near the northern end of the Yards. To his left were the foundations of George XXVIII's tomb; its size had absorbed too much heat and energy to leave anything more than melted slag and a hole where the sarcophagus had been. The bones of poor old George had long since been blown east.
To the man's right a smaller tomb, that of Sir Henry Limpkin, still stood; its smaller size and the shielding effect of the larger building had saved it.
The armored man drew his sword and delicately peeled the steel door away from its frame. Opening it, he sheathed the weapon and stepped inside. It was dark, but the man had long ago ceased to consider light necessary for routine activity.
He easily lifted the lids off of Limpkin's three traditional coffins of iron, lead and sandalwood. He reached in and found the model of the
Victory
that he had given the civil servant more than one hundred and fifty years ago; it was resting on Limpkin's ribcage, his talons clasping it peacefully.
The armored man cleared away the dirt and finger bones that had stuck to the model and took it out into the sunlight. He admired it, letting the sun play over its silver contours as Limpkin had once done. He removed his right gauntlet and laid it on a nearby pile of rubble and bones that had melted together.
He took the golden ring from his hand and fitted it around the nose of the model. Small panels, suddenly limber despite their age, shifted and the ring slid into the little hull until only the crest, the fist and pegasus, remained visible on the dorsal side. The armored man felt a tremendous sense of completion and satisfaction now. He seated the craft firmly in his hand and drew back; he aimed straight for the sun as if he could hit and sunder it with so small a missile. The man hurled the model skyward.
Instead of slowing, the miniature
Victory
gained speed until it was lost. A mile or so over the Yards the model blew itself apart. It became a black flare, made of the same kind of fire that had destroyed Gun Hill and the Fortress. The black light stained the sky and spread cancerously over the sun.
In answer to the man's signal, similar dark brilliants rose above the western mountains from the Sea all the way to the northern horizon, as the thing that Salasar had become prepared to march east.
To Kenyan College, and to the men I knew there.
Because God put His adamantine fate Between my sullen heart and its desire, I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate, Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire. Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy. But Love was as a flame about my feet; Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry—
All the great courts were quiet in the sun. And full of vacant echoes: moss had grown Over the glassy pavement, and begun To creep within the dusty council-halls. An idle wind blew round an empty throne And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls.
Failure
by Rupert Brooke
"And then I saw three unclean spirits like frogs come out of the mouth of the dragon, and out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the false prophet.
"For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty.
"And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue, Armageddon." —Revelations 16: 13, 14, 16 209
* * *
"And I saw the beast and the kings of the earth and their armies, gathered together to make war against him that sat on the horse, and against his army.
"And the beast was taken and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshiped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.
"And the remnant were slain with the sword of him that sat upon the horse, which sword proceeded out of his mouth; and the fowls were filled with their flesh."
—Revelations 19: 19, 20, 21
* * *
"And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them."
—Revelations 20: 9
* * *
"And all that was written was accomplished in the fullness of his wisdom and majesty: the captains, their armies, and all of the nations of the earth were encircled with the fire and consumed, even unto ashes and dust.
"But among the ashes and the heaps of dust there lived men that had pledged neither loyalty nor had worshiped him upon the horse or the beast. And in time these men raised upon the land their own nations and appointed their own captains and began to worship, each unto the dictates of his own mind.
"But they were men of ash as were their nations, and little grew upon the land save hatred and frustration. So all lived with the hope of yet another final battle, one where the fire would consume all, and the chasm between the worlds would divide and swallow all, even the ash."
—Survivors 17: 6, 7, 8
* * *
"But again mankind was divided and set upon the plain of Armageddon, although it was called Tynemorgan by the men of Salasar, and again the battle was joined and darkness overthrown by light, and yet again the ashes of battle and the men of ash still lived. And at the sight of them strange wailings were heard beyond the sun; a great sadness swept out of the heart of God and into the soul of the ashen nations. Again, though, the hope of yet another ending helped to turn the ash into flesh and blood."
—Book of Eric 2: 37
* * *
" 'Who are these men?' he asked me, his face twisted with anxiety. 'They come into our towns and homes and our own brothers become like them, like madmen possessed by ideas which I cannot even begin to fathom. Who are they?' he asked again.
" 'I don't know.'
" 'My own brother!' He railed on, 'He takes one look at that beggar and then it seems like he, he . . . And then that fleet, those ships come and he leaves without a word to me or to his family. God! With ships like those one could rule nations, ransom any throne on earth! But no, he and the others who betrayed us just got on and left. Men who I thought I had known all my life, they turned on me and left. Who are they?"I don't know."'
—Dialogues of Moreth,
Chapter IV
* * *
"The battles continue, the last being in memory of my grandfather, breaking and crushing the land into dust compounded; all the Books are erased and many of man's arts have fled his mind.
"There is a thing, a strange melancholy that grows on this world and makes the efforts of men as barren as the soil they are founded upon. Now even the armies that are raised by men to defeat evil fall apart and disintegrate before the battle plain is reached.
"The cancer seems to have invaded more than earth and the hearts of mere men. The clockworks of creation have shorn their gears; stars do not appear at their appointed times; the seasons fail to conform to their immortal standards; and even the surety of a death of pain and damnation begins to seem favorable to the bleeding perversity of earth."
—Inscription on a ruined gate at the Black Library at Iriam, chronology unknown
The ship had been badly hurt at the Meadows, and her wounds showed pale yellow and rust in the afternoon sun. Almost a year to the day, she had steamed proudly out of the Goerlin Estuary, eighty of her sisters at either side. There had been battleships afloat on that day, an aircraft carrier, cruisers like herself, and fast destroyers. Now only she remained alive.
All the fading might and wealth and tradition of the Maritime Republics had sailed with that fleet; their flags and the arms of their great houses, all committed to fight on what they judged to be the proper side at the Meadows. By rights, not one should have returned, or even have had a place to return to.
So they had fought, valiantly in many cases, and those empty souls who had chosen to remain behind had seen the night sky burning and felt the ground ripple imperceptibly, even though the Meadows were over two thousand miles away. Surely, if anything could end time and creation, the battle that had erupted upon the Meadows would have done it.
They, the empty people, had found a curious comfort in those days, while the western highlands were edged with red and their china rattled impolitely at teatime. They had even begun to pride themselves in being able to view the situation impartially, free from the passions of those who had embroiled themselves in the struggle. "The plan of creation," wrote Moreth in one of his last Dialogues—how easily he handled such terms, "naturally contains form, content, and a goal at which the first two qualities are aimed. It is further natural that the goal should remain permanently aloof from mortal comprehension; the content is, simply, history; the form, one may safely conclude on the most elementary level, is time. Time is, ultimately, a finite quantity, for if it is divorced from limits, then it ceases to be time and becomes eternity, regardless of how many changes may be contained within it.
"The beginning of time went unrecorded because of the simple absence of observers; but now, at the end, there are observers, men such as myself who feel relief and awe in seeing creation so neatly trimmed off.
"We find relief in that this capstone to time and the universe and all the accompanying phenomena serve finally to illuminate the hand of a true Creator, lying beyond time and mere physical presence. All the brilliant sophistries of dead atheists have fallen before the fulfillment of
Revelations, Survivors,
and the
Book of Eric.
True, these Books have spoken of other battles that were supposed to have ended time, but one can only ascribe poor judgment to their writers, most probably brought on by a feeling of weariness and a disgust with the state of the world.
"But now, we are sure, the final battle is joined, and I have every confidence that those who have committed themselves to the Creator shall carry the day and thus ensure their and their ancestors' salvation.