Tribute to Hell

by Ian Irvine

  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.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Astatine, laying her hands on him. Her forgiveness seemed to ease his pain.

  ‘K’nacka gave me two finger bones, but I only used one to open the c
asket. This is the other.’

  ‘You thrust it into the Great God’s heart.’

  ‘He could only die by his own hand.’

  ‘And now you’re dying as well.’

  ‘Death feels a lot more comfortable than my empty life.’ His eyes closed. ‘Look after my little sister, won’t you, Roget?’

  ‘I will,’ said Roget, gripping his hand, and Greave died.

  Fistus was bound and gagged, his staff and magical devices broken, then the gods and demons gathered.

  ‘There must be a reckoning,’ said K’nacka, his eyes glinting. ‘Behemoth has gone too far this time — seducing our cardinal, corrupting the temple, putting Elyssian, Hightspall and Perdition at risk. He must be curbed, forever.’

  ‘I can cause you more grief than you can me,’ said Behemoth.

  ‘Isn’t this how it all started?’ said Roget quietly.

  How could they prevent the terrible cycle from beginning again? Astatine had thought of a way, though it required her to sit in judgement on two immortals: the god who had been the mainstay of her wretched life, and the father to whom she owed, if nothing else, daughterly respect.

  ‘How can one so worthless as I presume to pass sentence on my god?’ she mused. ‘Surely that would put me in the same league of wickedness as Fistus?’

  ‘When our gods fall short,’ said Roget, ‘we can only rely on our own good sense — for good or ill.’

  Astatine’s chest tightened until it was hard to breathe, and she felt her panic rising. A thousand times she had been slapped down as an arrogant, ignorant novice, told that she must not think or question, only obey. But unthinking obedience would serve her no longer; for the sake of Hightspall, and the gods, she must take control. If she did not, Greave’s noble sacrifice would be wasted.

  Breathing became a little easier. She had to do this, no matter if it cost her life. Astatine raised her voice. ‘Worshipful K’nacka, beloved Father, would you come with me?’

  Neither god nor demon looked pleased at the summons, yet they followed her down the hill and out of sight of the others.

  Well, mortal? growled K’nacka, perching his plump buttocks on a pointed rock.

  Her heart was galloping now. ‘My lord,’ she said, gulping, ‘Your wickedness led to this disgraceful Covenant, and to the torment of thousands of innocent souls you paid in tribute to Perdition. You are unworthy.’

  You blasphemous little slut! cried K’nacka, rising into the air and raising a fist to smite her dead.

  Behemoth cleared his throat and K’nacka subsided, muttering.

  Her father was grinning. ‘Oh, yes, you’re definitely my daughter.’

  ‘You’re just as bad, Father! No, worse. How could you do this to me?’

  The smile became predatory. ‘Make your petty point.’

  ‘Even when I was a little girl, I never felt I belonged, not even in my own body. And all my life I’ve believed that I carried corruption inside me — that I was responsible for the despair and wickedness in Hightspall.’ She met their eyes, trying not to flinch. ‘But it came from you, Father — you and him.’

  ‘So?’ said Behemoth.

  Astatine stalled, unable to see the way ahead. She had thought to shame K’nacka and Behemoth by telling the gods and demons about the Covenant, but without proof they would ignore her. Besides, that would break her oath to Hildy. She sought for another way.

  ‘Lord K’nacka,’ she said, ‘you have debauched Elyssian and shamed the gods. Either you abdicate, or I’ll reveal the Covenant.’ She prayed that he would not call her double bluff.

  Abdicate! K’nacka’s cry started an avalanche down the slope. Where to?

  ‘Perdition.’

  Show me the Covenant.

  Her bluff had been called, and she had lost. Her father was smiling grimly; no help there. The skin of her belly prickled, the dark specks that were always itchy, and Hildy’s dying words, ‘The stigmata —’ resurfaced.

  They struck her like one of the Great God’s thunderbolts — so that’s why she’d always felt that she was corrupting the world. Astatine took a deep breath, praying that her hunch was right, and held out her hand. ‘Father, your enchanted blade.’

  He gave it to her. She opened her habit and made a careful scratch across her lower belly with the tip of the knife, then up, across below her breasts and down again.

  ‘It wasn’t my body I did not belong in, was it, Father?’ she said, feathering up her creamy skin to reveal a dark inner skin beneath. She peeled the pale rectangle off and held it out, displaying the damning words and signatures on the inside.

  ‘It was my skin! When I was a little girl you covered my dark skin with a second, pale skin onto which you’d copied the Covenant on the inside.’ She took a step towards Behemoth. ‘How could you do this to me? All the ills of the world come from this dreadful Covenant.’

  ‘Not all the ills,’ said Behemoth, somewhat abashed. ‘I don’t turn good to evil, Daughter. I merely improve on the evil which already flourishes in humanity.’

  K’nacka eyed the Covenant, slowly extending his fingers.

  ‘It’s under my protection,’ hissed Behemoth.

  K’nacka drew back, rubbing his chin. To give up Elyssian, he said shrewdly, I need more. What else are you proposing, demon’s daughter?

  ‘Father will give you back your —’ Astatine flushed; no virtuous novice would name those body parts. ‘What you’ve lost.’

  I lose Elyssian, and all he gives up are the balls he robbed me of with loaded dice, snapped K’nacka. It’s not enough.

  ‘Father will also abdicate,’ said Astatine, avoiding Behemoth’s furious eye. ‘Perdition must find a new lord.’

  Me? breathed K’nacka.

  ‘Isn’t it better to reign in Perdition than endure eternal mockery in Elyssian?’

  ‘Damned if I’ll abdicate!’ said Behemoth.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Astatine, ‘and you will return all the unjustly reaped souls to Elyssian.’

  ‘Or?’ said her father.

  She had not realised how sharp his teeth were, how black his eyes. Astatine swallowed, wavered, but knew she had to go on. ‘Or I’ll tell your fellow demons that you’ve been making deals with the gods.’

  ‘I could destroy the Covenant.’

  It’s under my protection, said K’nacka, raising his fist.

  Behemoth turned his way, putting on a patently false smile. ‘K’nacka, my old sparring partner, we don’t have to put up with this. She’s just a slip of a girl. We can take the Covenant off her in a second, and destroy it together.’

  Astatine hadn’t thought of that, yet they had diced together; they had just fought side by side, and they both wanted the Covenant destroyed. Of course they would take it.

  Do you seriously think I’ll deal with you again after you cheated me? said K’nacka.

  ‘It was worth a try,’ said Behemoth.

  Besides, I can’t bear the tedium of Elyssian any longer.

  ‘Not even with all those month-brides to comfort you?’ Behemoth said slyly.

  They were just for show; what use are brides to a codless god? But it’ll be different in Perdition. I’m looking forward to the challenge of toppling you. I feel quite alive again.

  ‘So do I, my old enemy,’ said Behemoth, his black eyes gleaming. ‘So do I.’

  After K’nacka had returned to the other gods, Behemoth said, ‘You drive a devil of a bargain, Daughter.’

  ‘I learned from the master. Oh, and when you go, take Fistus with you.’

  ‘If he enters Perdition alive, he’ll suffer even more cruelly.’

  Mercy, vengeance, or retribution? The abbey’s teachings, or Perdition’s? She had broken her vow and no abbey would take her in, but she would always be a demon’s daughter. Besides, mercy would only give Fistus the chance to begin again. ‘He has to pay his debts. Take him.’

  Behemoth nodded, rose, but settled down again, staring at her.

  ‘What?’ Astatine said, af
raid he was going to punish her.

  ‘Take off that ugly white skin. Let me see my beautiful daughter as she really is.’

  She started, then went between the rocks, undressed and took hold of an edge of her white skin. It sloughed off easily, as if Behemoth had broken the bonds that held it in place. Astatine threw the ugly novice’s habit away, put her gown on over the cocoa skin that felt so right, and went back.

  Behemoth sighed and, to her astonishment, an adamantine tear appeared in one eye.

  ‘Come back with me,’ he said. ‘In Perdition you will be a princess. You can have everything you ever wanted.’

  Astatine was tempted, but she said, ‘Why would I want to be a princess of tormented souls?’

  ‘A nun is a slave to live souls.’

  ‘I can’t be a nun; I’ve broken my vows.’

  ‘No one need ever know. You can go back, if that’s what you really want.’

  ‘I would know. Besides, someone has to make up for what you and K’nacka have done to Hightspall. I’m going to help put it right.’

  ‘You won’t succeed. The world is too far gone.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Not any more. I’m going to fight the influence of Perdition all the way.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ he said fondly. ‘But the gods are no better, you know.’

  Astatine hesitated, now knowing how imperfect the gods were; how capricious. She wasn’t entirely sure she believed in them any more, as gods. And yet, perhaps they were needed.

  ‘People have to believe in something, Father. If they can’t, they’ll believe in anything. Besides, I believe that the gods reflect who we are. If we live better lives, they might, too.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’ he growled. ‘Well, don’t think you’re going to corrupt me into goodness.’

  ‘I’m my father’s daughter,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’ve already corrupted you.’

  AFTERWORD

  ‘Tribute to Hell’ is set in the Elder Days of a new fantasy world explored in detail in the trilogy The Tainted Realm, published worldwide by Orbit Books from late 2010. The first book is Vengeance.