Tribute to Hell

stone. The hour was five o’clock, so a man at the end of his rope could approach the casket, but if he touched it he would die.

Astatine crouched on the altar, her lips moving in prayer. She looked up suddenly and Greave did too, for the shadows below the high roof were thickening. Something was forming there.

Swords clashed below them; Roget was fighting three monks at once. Another half dozen were advancing on the altar, and from a door to his left a crimson-clad man appeared, the Carnal Cardinal. Fistus’s face was hungry, his eyes hooded, and the full-lipped, greedy mouth was as red as his gown.

Greave drew the god-bone from his pocket, but fumbled and dropped it. As he snatched it out of the air, several of the hairs on his arm passed through a milky nimbus surrounding the casket and the pain was like being impaled on a body-length spike. He screamed.

The novice rose, staring at him, but as he met her eyes, frost whitened her hair and gown. Her gaze slipped to the casket, she swallowed, then tensed. Even after witnessing his agony, she was going to do it.

‘Use the damn bone!’ bellowed Roget.

Under the roof, the shadows continued to thicken — K’nacka was coming. As Astatine tensed, Greave’s right arm jerked towards the casket. This is the trap, he thought. The god will get whatever is inside, and I’m going to die in agony.

He flinched and tried to draw back. Better the novice die than him; what did one nun matter, more or less? But his arm kept stretching, his fingers reaching out, and, as she moved, the god-bone touched the top of the casket.

As Astatine dived, K’nacka materialised high above. The temple shook; the ground rumbled and cracks jagged across the paved floor.

The lid of the casket sprang open, sending the god-bone soaring. She was too late. The nimbus went out, then her hands caught the casket and she tried to slam the lid.

She did not die; she felt no pain at all, but the lid would not close and now the casket was bouncing and tumbling beneath her as the altar shook ever more wildly. Astatine tried to hold it, sobbing with terror, but the outside was slippery with soot. She looked into the open casket and froze.

K’nacka arrested in mid-air, plump legs swinging ten feet above her. Where is the Covenant? he wailed, then vanished.

Astatine let go. The casket snapped shut and the deadly nimbus reappeared.

Fistus, whose eyes had not left the tumbling god-bone, caught it left-handed. ‘Abbess Hildy is behind this sacrilege,’ he said to his guards. ‘You know what to do.’

Roget raised his hand, the candle flames pinched out, and Astatine bolted. She had broken her oath and let down her god. After she told the abbess, she would be cast out.

Greave pounded through the maze into the forest beyond, running until the full horror of his defeat caught up with him, when he slumped onto the mouldy leaves. There was no way back this time.

‘Fistus knew we were coming,’ said Roget, panting. ‘He was waiting for the god-bone.’

‘I’ve been manipulated from the beginning,’ said Greave.

‘Don’t blame Providence for your own flaws! We’d better get moving,’

‘What’s the point? I’ve lost everything.’

Not yet. But you will if you let me down again.

Greave felt that icy finger again, though this time K’nacka was ten yards away, perched on a low branch. His belly was shrunken to a pot, his plump cheeks sagged and his eyes darted like rats pursued by a ferret. But he was still a god; he could snuff out Greave’s little sister with a snap of his pudgy fingers.

‘What must I do, Lord?’ said Greave.

The casket was empty. The novice must have stolen the contents for the abbess. She has insulted the Seven Gods and profaned our High Temple. Swear that you will recover the contents then burn the abbey, with everyone inside it, as a sacrifice to me.

Greave felt sick. He too had insulted a god; he too had profaned the temple, and whether he committed this terrible crime or not, he was also going to die.

Swear, on your sister’s life.

He hesitated no longer. His sister was all he had left. Besides, how could he oppose the will of a god? ‘I swear.’

When Greave reached the abbey he discovered Astatine in its chapel, kneeling before the icons of the Seven Gods in the semi-dark and praying, with quiet desperation, for forgiveness. Exhaustion had temporarily quieted his lust, so he half-shuttered his lantern and examined her sidelong. He could not allow the curse to freeze her until he learned the truth.

She looked young, innocent and afraid, and his heart went out to her, but he hardened it. Astatine had claimed that she wanted to prevent his sacrilege, then had committed a worse one. She was a liar and a thief, and the choice between her life and his little sister’s was no choice at all.

‘Where is it, Novice?’

She jumped. ‘Where’s what?’

‘Whatever was in the casket.’

She wrung her interlocked fingers. ‘It was empty save for some flakes of ash.’

‘Liar! It can only be opened with a god-bone.’

‘Someone must have opened it with a different god-bone.’

‘If they had, it would not have opened for mine.’

Greave searched her, roughly, knowing he was hurting her, though she maintained a stoic silence, her gaze fixed on the icons. He found nothing, though of course she was only a novice. The abbess would have the contents now.

He picked up the lantern but put it down again. He had sworn to torch the abbey, and could not defy his god, but neither could he bear to think of the little novice being burned alive. Far better that she die swiftly and painlessly here.

As he drew his knife, Astatine turned towards him. Frost had formed all over her, yet her eyes were unflinching in the face of death and it shook him, for he could not have done the same. He cursed; though he was a heartless seducer and a blasphemous oath-breaker, he was not a murderer.

In a frenzy of despair he slashed his chest, spilling his blood before the icons. It was the best sacrifice he could make, though he knew it would not appease K’nacka. He was standing over Astatine, his blood dripping from the knife, when the abbess opened the door.

‘And I thought you’d already plumbed the depths.’

The Abbess’s voice dripped contempt; evidently she thought he had killed the novice. Hildy limped across and struck at him with her cane, but as he turned to protect himself she stumbled and his knife slid into her side.

Greave felt such a pain that the blade might have pierced his own flesh, but he fought it down. The god had given him an order and he had to obey. ‘Where are the contents of the casket?’

‘I swear by the Seven Gods that the casket was empty,’ said Hildy, holding a hand to the wound. ‘Now get out!’

As Greave stumbled away, his lantern shaking, Hildy pulled Astatine close. ‘Listen carefully. I’ve had another vision, a worse one.’

The smell of blood was overpowering; unless the bleeding was stopped, the abbess would die. ‘Please, Hildy, sit down. Let me bind the wound.’ Astatine tore a strip from her habit and pressed it against the gash.

‘Hush, little sister; it’s too late for me, but the fate of Hightspall lies in the balance and only you can save it.’

‘I’m just a novice. I don’t know anything.’

‘You’re the one person I can trust.’

And yet you’re throwing me out. ‘W-what did you see?’

In the gloom, Hildy’s old face was a crumpled rag, her eyes dying embers. ‘A dreadful Covenant between K’nacka and Behemoth, the Prince of Perdition — ’

Astatine cried out in disbelief, for Behemoth hated the gods and everything she believed in. But then she remembered K’nacka shouting, Where is the Covenant? ‘Abbess, K’nacka and Behemoth