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 casket. 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.’