Tribute to Hell

I can’t be a timid novice any longer, she thought. Demon’s blood runs in my veins; my father is Behemoth, the Prince of Devilry, who once beat the Great God himself, then turned his back on Elyssian. I’ve got to do this!

‘Yes, someone can.’ Astatine backed away between the rocks. ‘Father?’ she called, her voice ringing out between the thunderclaps. ‘Help us. If Fistus’s spells can control a god, neither Hightspall, Elyssian nor even Perdition is safe.’

Behemoth appeared in the air before her, cross-legged as before. ‘Daughter, I cannot interfere.’

‘Why not?’

‘A sacred compact forbids us. We can cajole, persuade, seduce, even threaten, but neither gods nor demons may act directly in the world.’

Was she to fall at the first obstacle? No; she summoned her demon blood, stood tall and curled her lip. ‘I thought you were supposed to be evil!’ she said, dripping scorn. ‘Break the damn bloody compact.’

‘I can,’ he said, smiling at the mildness of her oaths, ‘but would you call demons into Hightspall without the gods to balance us?’

Astatine paled. She had not thought of that. ‘Do it!’

As Behemoth faded, she ran back to Greave, who was hunched over as if in pain. ‘Lord Greave, you have a link to K’nacka. Call him down.’

Greave turned, his eyes unfocussed. ‘K’nacka?’

‘Yes, quickly.’

Greave rubbed his face with his hands, then called her god, who appeared at once. Had he been waiting for the summons?

Astatine’s heart began to pound so furiously she feared it would tear free of its arteries. Her god, her god! But she had to be calm; there were only seconds left.

‘Great K’nacka,’ she said, bowing low. ‘See what your servant Fistus has done? The Seven Gods must enter Hightspall and stop him before it’s too late.’

There is a compact, little nun, said K’nacka.

‘Break it!’

The gods do not break compacts. He glared at her as though she were a turd on his pillow.

‘Perdition is going to.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Besides, I know where the Covenant is.’

His head jerked up, wobbling his jowls like twin jellies. I’ve been told it was burned in the casket, long ago.

‘I have a perfect copy,’ she lied, ‘and if you’re afraid to break the compact, I’ll reveal the Covenant. The gods will become a laughing stock — and you will be cast down.’

K’nacka let out such a roar than she was blown tumbling backwards and, by the time she had recovered, he was gone.

‘Fistus is taking control,’ Roget said, peering over the rocks.

Astatine did not think Greave’s head could hang any lower. She pitied him now, but could do nothing for him either. Her efforts had been in vain. Who did she think she was, little mouse, to order immortals about?

‘Stamp them out!’ shouted the Carnal Cardinal, pointing in their direction.

The Great God stopped, one foot in the air, bundles of lightning bolts clutched in his upraised left fist. Now he swivelled away from Fistus, grinding stone to dust beneath his feet, and hurled a bolt at their refuge.

Astatine dived away as a ravine was blasted through the rock mound, sending fountains of shattered stone arching out to either side. The god swung back towards Fistus, flinging bolts at him, one after another. One shattered the remains of the Cloven Shrine; a second killed dozens of Red Monks. Most of the survivors fled, but Fistus remained where he was, deflecting the bolts with sweeps of his arms.

‘His magic is unbelievable,’ whispered Roget.

And Father gave it to him, thought Astatine. If he won’t put things right, I must. ‘Gods, please break the compact!’

Fistus cast the Control Spell again, but neither gods nor demons appeared. The Great God rotated like an automaton, took a step towards their hiding place, and Astatine prepared to die.

She huddled in the lightning-riven dark as smashed rock fell all around. The sky was lit by tremendous energies in black and white and red, then the Seven Gods appeared in the east. A host of demons came howling from the west, led by Behemoth, but both gods and demons stopped and hovered above the Cloven Temple.

The Great God squeezed a dozen bolts into one so brilliant that his flesh could be seen hanging transparently on his bones, then hurled it at his ancient enemy — Behemoth.

Astatine’s breath congealed in her throat. ‘Father!’ How could he survive such a blast?

The bolt hurled Behemoth backwards, lighting him up like a comet, but he wrung the lightning into a clot the size of a snowball and flung it at Fistus. The cardinal leapt to safety as the Cloven Shrine vapourised, its molten foundations cascading like lava down the cleft in the hill.

‘Fight!’ roared Fistus.

The Great God crushed more bolts together and Astatine knew that, this time, her father must die.

‘Together, you fools!’ she roared, then clapped her hands over her mouth in horror. Who was she, an insignificant novice, to order her gods about like servants?

The Seven Gods rotated in the air, the force of their combined glares singeing her garments, and Astatine quailed.

A ghostly smile appeared on Behemoth’s grim face. ‘As my beloved daughter said, together!’

Gods and demons, working together for the only time in eternity, attacked the Great God. He blasted a host of demons away, tumbling them like bats in a hurricane, then five blows struck him at once. He toppled; he fell; he slammed into the hilltop with the force of an earthquake.

‘Rise!’ commanded Fistus, and the Great God struggled to rise.

‘He can’t be beaten this way,’ said Roget quietly. ‘The Great God’s fate is that he can only die by his own hand.’

Fistus’s spell drove the Great God up onto his knees and he attacked anew but, after a titanic struggle, the gods and demons brought him down again.

‘He can’t take much more.’ Astatine was moved, despite everything, by the driven god’s suffering.

‘Neither can they,’ said Roget. The exhausted gods clung to the rocks like moths to twigs, while clusters of battered demons shrieked in the fuming cleft. Behemoth lay on his back, his barrel chest rising and falling, bellows-like.

‘The Great God’s new wounds are healing themselves,’ said Greave, who was standing upright now, jaw set as if he’d come to some terrible resolve. ‘If he can rise again, he’ll win.’

‘No, Fistus will win,’ said Astatine.

‘The Great God is sitting up,’ said Roget.

‘And we can’t stop him. He can’t be killed.’

‘There is a way.’ Greave exchanged glances with Roget. ‘We both know it.’

‘No,’ cried Roget. ‘One speck of a god’s blood will slay the strongest mortal.’

‘I gave Fistus the means. Only I can undo what he’s done.’

‘The price is too high.’

‘I’ve already paid the price,’ said Greave, ‘but redemption still eludes me.’

Greave shook his friend’s hand and, to Astatine’s surprise, her own. This time, as his eyes met hers, she felt no trace of frost. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.

He strode off, head held high. As the Great God climbed to his knees, healed save for the self-inflicted wound between his ribs, Greave drew something from his pocket, thrust it arm’s length up into the gash, and twisted.

The Great God reared up, writhing with the pain. Greave, his arm trapped in the wound, now swung back and forth fifteen feet above the ground.

‘He’s failed,’ said Astatine. ‘He’s going to fall.’