‘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.