Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  ‘He should have known that my dice were loaded.’ Behemoth’s thick lip curled. ‘K’nacka begged for another chance, double or nothing, and I was happy to dice again — as long as he signed a binding Covenant promising to pay tribute to Perdition if he lost the other ball.’

  ‘A tribute of what?’

  ‘A tithe of souls, the most perfect and saintly of all those who enter Elyssian. You can imagine how delightful I found that irony, Daughter. The harder that mortals strove to live good lives, the more likely they’d attract the attention of K’nacka and become part of his tribute to me. Good or bad, I’d reap their souls.’ Behemoth grinned savagely. ‘And I won. Suddenly, my life had meaning again.’

  And this monster was her father? No wonder she felt that she had been carrying a sickness around inside her, infecting the world.

  ‘Hildy said she could hear the shrieks of the saintly,’ Astatine whispered. ‘Oh, Father, how could you?’

  ‘It’s what I’m for. Hightspall needs me, and so do the gods. Without evil, where is the good?’

  ‘But Hightspall is falling apart, and it’s your fault. You’ve got to put things right.’

  ‘I don’t do right,’ he snapped.

  ‘Then why did you burn the Covenant?’

  ‘So K’nacka could not.’

  ‘Where did you hide the copy?’

  His smile faded; he seemed to be reassessing her. ‘In a place where you can never see it.’ Behemoth faded away.

  Did he mean that the Covenant was hidden in Perdition? Could she only destroy it, and keep her oath, by dying?

  * * * *

  ‘Fistus looks ready to work his “miracle”,’ said Roget as they watched the preparations in front of the Cloven Shrine. A hundred red-robed monks stood guard to either side.

  Greave ached for a drink. Stone sober, he lacked the courage to do what must be done. ‘Can you tell what spell it is?’

  Roget focused his spyglass. ‘No, but it’s no ordinary magic.’

  Think of this as another seduction, Greave told himself, the riskiest and most glorious of your life. It got him to his feet, but he felt no thrill — this task was all risk and no reward. ‘We’d better move.’

  ‘Taking him on is suicide.’

  ‘I’m dead either way.’ Greave headed across the rock-littered hillside. Roget and Astatine followed.

  The Carnal Cardinal turned to meet them, his mouth as red as a feeding vampire’s. ‘You think to challenge me?’ Fistus pounded his chest. ‘I’ve done a deal with Behemoth himself.’

  ‘And betrayed the gods you swore to serve,’ said Greave, only now realising his own hypocrisy.

  ‘They’ve forsaken us and must be cast down.’

  A white object in Fistus’s hand reflected the light; something small, pointed and familiar. Ants scurried across Greave’s scalp.

  ‘The god-bone,’ he said hoarsely. ‘That’s what you were after all along.’

  ‘I used sorcery to whisper into your mind,’ sneered Fistus. ‘It was surprisingly easy to heighten your despair and encourage excesses your dull wits could never have imagined.’

  ‘You wanted me to seduce K’nacka’s month-bride?’ whispered Greave.

  ‘I knew he held the god-bone in Elyssian, though there it was beyond my reach. The only one way to get it was by giving K’nacka the means to destroy the Covenant — via a man at the end of his rope.’

  ‘But you’d already allowed Behemoth to burn it.’

  Fistus smirked. ‘Poor, deluded K’nacka didn’t know that.’

  ‘How dare you set yourself up as a rival to the gods you swore to serve!’ cried Astatine.

  The hooded eyes fixed on her, but dismissed her as insignificant. ‘My spells are greater than theirs,’ said Fistus, ‘yet are they recognised? The gods treat me like a churl.’

  ‘They recognise your true nature,’ Greave said recklessly.

  Fistus’s gory lips thinned. ‘Get rid of them,’ he said over his shoulder, then turned to a crude bench his priests had constructed from slabs of shrine stone. A large stone chalice stood on top, empty save for a small amount of grey powder. The trench they had excavated was half full of it.

  The monks drove Roget, Greave and Astatine back, but did not attempt to harm them. Fistus wanted them to see his might, and despair.

  ‘At least you know that his magic was behind some of the terrible things you’ve done,’ said Roget.

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Greave said in a dead voice. ‘To discover that I’ve been manipulated like a mindless fool? Besides, he didn’t corrupt me — he only fed the sickness that was already there.’

  ‘Without him, you might have come to your senses.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Greave rasped. ‘The hook had already bitten too deep, and there’s only one way off it now.’

  * * * *

  Fistus dropped the god-bone into the chalice, raised his hands and began the spell.

  ‘Is the grey stuff the dead god’s ashes?’ said Astatine, peeping through her fingers.

  ‘Gods, have mercy!’ cried Roget. ‘It’s a Resurrection spell. But surely not even Fistus would dare —’

  A whistling sound arose from all parts of the horizon and raced towards the hill, rising to a series of ear-rending screeches that collided, collapsed, then an utter silence, more unnerving yet, enveloped all.

  The chalice quivered and burst, its contents billowing upwards in a grey plume which slowly pulled together to the form of a man, a giant almost the height of the Cloven Shrine, though the skin hung on him and his granite face was fissured with despair. A wound between his ribs ebbed red; the bloody blade dangled from his right hand.

  Astatine gasped and fell to her knees. ‘The Great God,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, this is monstrous,’ said Roget. ‘The Seven Gods must strike Fistus dead.’

  As the Great God shambled forwards they saw chains linking his wrists and ankles, yet even shackled and weak from centuries of death he was a forbidding figure. Fistus cried out involuntarily and backed away, eyes darting.

  ‘He’s overreached himself!’ said Roget. ‘The Great God will splatter him like a gnat.’

  ‘Either way, we’re done,’ said Greave.

  Fistus stopped and his lips moved as if exhorting himself to stand firm, then he raised his hands for another spell.

  ‘It’s a two-part spell, resurrection and control,’ said Roget. ‘Now comes the control part. If he’s quick, he might just do it.’

  ‘No man can control a god,’ said Astatine. Just speaking the words was blasphemous.

  She took out her medal and began to rub it furiously but then, recognising the worn image on it as Behemoth, hurled it away. She began to twist her fingers together, then abruptly thrust them down by her sides, but she could not keep them still.

  As the Great God attempted to turn aside the spell, he stumbled and it struck him on the right cheek. Howling in rage, he broke his wrist shackles and reached up into the low clouds. Thunder rumbled and the cloud boiled up into a thunderhead, incandescent with lightning. The sky went black. Astatine could not see. Lightning stabbed down at the Cloven Shrine, collapsing half of it; another bolt struck three of the priests dead. The remainder ran for their lives, though the red-gowned monks remained.

  Fistus stood firm and cast the spell again.

  ‘This is the end of the world,’ said Roget. ‘Whoever wins, priest or god, there’ll be nothing left.’

  ‘It’s my punishment for seducing the month-bride,’ said Greave, head bowed. ‘And for a lifetime of depravity.’

  Suddenly Astatine saw him from the other, tormented side. ‘Not a lifetime, Lord,’ she said gently. ‘Just a time, and it’s over now.’

  ‘Too late. No one can undo this.’

  There had to be a way but could Astatine, the little mouse, find it? She must — her gods needed help and she could not deny them.

  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.’

  Fistus cursed and fired a spell at Greave, who swung in under the god’s arm, pulled close, then thrust again. The god stumbled; Greave’s blood-covered arm slid free and he fell to the ground, convulsing.

  The Great God staggered around, crushing shrubs and monks underfoot, then tripped and toppled head-first into the chasm, dead. Fistus clutched at his head and slumped, writhing.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ said Astatine, gathering her skirts and running to Greave.
/>   ‘The severing of a Resurrection Spell causes unending agony,’ said Roget. ‘Though less than Fistus deserves.’

  The flesh of Greave’s arm was smoking and bubbling, the seething mess creeping towards his heart.

  ‘Roget?’ she cried. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’

  Greave’s arm spasmed and a small white object slipped from his hand. ‘Burn this with the body,’ he said quietly, ‘then scatter the ashes.’