Tribute to Hell by Ian Irvine Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜What’s the matter with him?’ said Astatine, gathering her skirts and running to Greave.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Roget?’ she cried. ‘What am I to do?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What is it?’ said Astatine, laying her hands on him. Her forgiveness seemed to ease his pain.
    â€˜K’nacka gave me two finger bones, but I only used one to open the casket. This is the other.’
    â€˜You thrust it into the Great God’s heart.’
    â€˜He could only die by his own hand.’
    â€˜And now you’re dying as well.’
    â€˜Death feels a lot more comfortable than my empty life.’ His eyes closed. ‘Look after my little sister, won’t you, Roget?’
    â€˜I will,’ said Roget, gripping his hand, and Greave died.
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    Fistus was bound and gagged, his staff and magical devices broken, then the gods and demons gathered.
    â€˜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 .’
    â€˜I can cause you more grief than you can me,’ said Behemoth.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You’re just as bad, Father! No, worse . How could you do this to me?’
    The smile became predatory. ‘Make your petty point.’
    â€˜Even when I was a little girl, I never felt I