Ian Irvine: Tribute to Hell

‘Her hair’s frosting over,’ hissed Roget, jerking Greave back by the collar. ‘Look away before you kill her too!’

Greave tried to pull free. ‘I don’t care. I’ve got to take her.’

‘Even if it costs you your little sister?’ Roget snapped.

It broke through the madness where nothing else could have and, with a wrench, Greave turned away. Now he could no longer see the novice, he was sickened by his depravity. ‘Let’s get on.’

After a day and a half away from her abbey, Astatine felt bruised. The world was strange and uncomfortable, the people unfriendly, the beasts of the forest savage. All she wanted was to fly home, close the great doors behind her and never look outwards again. But she had sworn to the Abbess.

Two noblemen stood in a gap in the maze not far ahead, talking. The tall one turned, staring at her, and her hair crackled — it was covered in frost . Astatine stopped, hand on her head, not understanding what had happened. But her time was running out; the fifth hour was almost upon her. She limped towards them, clutching the medal.

Lord, give me strength.

The dark-haired, wiry fellow was scarred like a duellist, though he did not look unkind. The other man — the Margrave Greave — was tall and broad-shouldered. Big feet, big hands. Not handsome; his mouth was too full, his nose a fleshy, sensuous monument …

Father, help me to do this dreadful thing.

Momentarily the medal warmed in Astatine’s hand, then cooled again. Her prayers would not be answered.

She rubbed her pale cheeks to redden them, which would, apparently, make her more enticing, then shrugged off the novice’s habit. The gown Hildy had given her was modest, yet Astatine’s gorge rose at the thought of what she must do, and her vow of chastity burned as if etched into her skin.

The noblemen turned abruptly and headed towards the temple. The hour was nearly upon her: if she could not stop them her god would be profaned, her oath broken, and she condemned to a world she wanted no part of.

‘Wait,’ she croaked, but her voice did not carry. ‘Lord Greave!’ Astatine jerked the front of her gown down as far as it would go and ran after them.

They stopped. Greave half turned, his eyes lowered, and Astatine felt frost settle on her hair again. He was a dangerous man.

His friend came down and blocked her path. ‘I’m Roget. Can I help you, sister?’

‘I must speak to Lord Greave,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘And so you shall,’ said Roget, ‘after he returns from worship.’

‘Now!’ cried Astatine desperately, ‘before five o’clock!’ She darted around him and was running towards Greave, her bosom bouncing, when her breath froze in her throat.

He was staring at her cleavage, lust a forest fire in his eyes, and the cold intensified. As he tore his shirt open, pains like growing needles of ice shot through her toes.

‘Greave! Remember your sister!’

Greave choked, spat out bile. ‘My soul is black, little novice; I must be shriven at once.’ He covered his face, turned and fell to his knees on the sharp rock.

Roget whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around Astatine so tightly that she could not move. The frost began to melt, sending icy trickles down the back of her neck, though she remained frozen inside. She had lost.

‘You said five o’clock ,’ he hissed. ‘Who betrayed us?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Astatine tried to hold back tears of despair.

He touched his sword to her breastbone. ‘Who sent you?’

She had always believed that she would be glad to die serving her god, but she so wanted to live.

‘The abbess saw Lord Greave in an ecstatic vision. Please, you must stop him from committing this dreadful sacrilege.’

Roget sheathed the sword. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m nobody. The Abbess ordered me to stop Lord Greave, and I swore I would …’

‘At the cost of your other vows?’

‘No matter the cost.’ Astatine blushed.

Roget sheathed his sword, cursing. ‘We’ll have to take her with us.’

Greave rose, looking the other way. His gashed knees were bloody. ‘Send her home, Roget. There’s a demon on my back, driving me to have her.’

‘If we leave her here, Fistus’s priests will torture the truth out of her. Come on.’

As Roget dragged Astatine along, she was frantically trying to think of a safe way to stop Greave. But there was only one way now.

‘It’s too easy,’ Greave muttered as they passed through the open doors. ‘Where are the guards?’

Apart from a scatter of kneeling worshippers, the candle-lit temple was empty. The altar was a slab of yellow travertine ten yards by six. The Graven Casket, a tarnished, dirty silver box, sat in the middle.

‘I don’t like it either,’ said Roget, who was a pace behind, keeping Astatine out of his friend’s sight. He held her arm. ‘You won’t make a sound, will you?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Got the bone, Greave?’

He nodded stiffly.

Roget cast a minor spell, forming a billowing halo of mist around them. ‘Go!’

Greave ran, knowing that he’d entered a trap of K’nacka’s making. He was probably going to die unpleasantly and by the manner of his death ruin his family’s noble name, but there was no way out.

‘Look out! yelled Roget, drawing his sword. The worshippers had cast off their cloaks to reveal red tunics — warrior monks.

With a despairing cry, Astatine darted for the altar. She must be planning to throw herself upon the casket, Greave thought, sacrificing her life to prevent him opening it.

A pang of remorse struck him, an unfamiliar feeling he had no time to analyse. As she scrambled up the front of the altar he vaulted onto it from the side, landed on his bloody knees and skidded across the polished stone. The hour was five o’clock, so a man at the end of his rope could approach the casket, but if he touched it he would die.

Astatine crouched on the altar, her lips moving in prayer. She looked up suddenly and Greave did too, for the shadows below the high roof were thickening. Something was forming there.

Swords clashed below them; Roget was fighting three monks at once. Another half dozen were advancing on the altar, and from a door to his left a crimson-clad man appeared, the Carnal Cardinal. Fistus’s face was hungry, his eyes hooded, and the full-lipped, greedy mouth was as red as his gown.

Greave drew the god-bone from his pocket, but fumbled and dropped it. As he snatched it out of the air, several of the hairs on his arm passed through a milky nimbus surrounding the casket and the pain was like being impaled on a body-length spike. He screamed.

The novice rose, staring at him, but as he met her eyes, frost whitened her hair and gown. Her gaze slipped to the casket, she swallowed, then tensed. Even after witnessing his agony, she was going to do it.

‘Use the damn bone!’ bellowed Roget.

Under the roof, the shadows continued to thicken — K’nacka was coming. As Astatine tensed, Greave’s right arm jerked towards the casket. This is the trap, he thought. The god will get whatever is inside, and I’m going to die in agony.

He flinched and tried to draw back. Better the novice die than him; what did one nun matter, more or less? But his arm kept stretching, his fingers reaching out, and, as she moved, the god-bone touched the top of the casket.

As Astatine dived, K’nacka materialised high above. The temple shook; the ground rumbled and cracks jagged across the paved floor.

The lid of the casket sprang open, sending the god-bone soaring. She was too late. The nimbus went out, then her hands caught the casket and she tried to slam the lid.