Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  ‘What am I to do?’ she said to the mule. ‘I can’t duel this wicked margrave; can’t stop him insulting the gods, even if I do break my second vow. He’ll use me and I’ll be cast out into the awful world, abandoned even by my god.’

  She clutched her only possession, the silver prayer medal left in her hand when she had been given to the abbey. It was so worn that she had never been able to identify the god it represented, though she took it to be her beloved K’nacka.

  Father, please help me find another way.

  Lord, if no other way can be found, give me the strength to break my vow of chastity in your service.

  Father, if my sacred vow must be broken, help me to endure the lustful margrave.

  I am just your vessel, Lord. I have no worth other than to serve you. Whatever happens to me I will endure it joyfully, in your name.

  But it was so very hard.

  * * * *

  Greave bit down on a twig to prevent his teeth from chattering. It was a hot afternoon, yet thirty-four hours after the encounter with K’nacka he was still freezing inside.

  ‘Ready?’ said Roget. They were trying to look casual as they strolled through the maze of clipped shrubbery surrounding the High Temple.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s but thirty minutes until the fifth hour.’

  ‘I know. Go through it again.’

  ‘The plan is simple. We enter as the noble pilgrims we are and I’ll use my sorcerous arts to make a diversion. You’ll run up, open the casket and snatch the contents. Then we run for our lives — and pray my spell holds.’

  ‘There’s bound to be a trap.’

  ‘If so, we’ll have to deal with it. What are you to do with the contents?’

  ‘K’nacka didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh!’ Roget said. ‘What do you think that means?’

  Greave did not answer. ‘Hello,’ he said, gazing at a small figure limping out from behind an arc of tea bushes. A hot gust blew back the cowl, tumbling her wavy black locks. ‘It’s a novice, and a pretty one.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Roget.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not even you would sink low enough to seduce a nun — would you?’

  ‘I seduced K’nacka’s month-bride. They don’t come any lower than me.’

  A reckless urge swelled, a lust to possess her no matter the consequences, and even here, even now, Greave could not deny it. He checked the sun; there was just enough time, master seducer as he was, to do the business before five. He licked his lips, cast a furtive glance at his friend, then turned towards her, putting on the smile that few women had ever been able to resist.

  ‘Go for a walk,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Greave, no!’ hissed Roget.

  The little novice stopped suddenly, raising one hand to her hair in astonishment, and Greave’s inner ice moved south. He ignored it, for lust was searing along his veins and he only felt truly alive when life or death rested on the toss of a coin. Now he felt like a superman and, no matter the consequences, he had to have her.

  ‘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 candledit 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.

  She did not die; she felt no pain at all, but the lid would not close and now the casket was bouncing and tumbling beneath her as the altar shook ever more wildly. Astatine tried to hold it, sobbing with terror, but the outside was slippery with soot. She looked into the open casket and froze.

  K’nacka arrested in mid-air, plump legs swinging ten feet above her. Where is the Covenant? he wailed, then vanished.

  Astatine let go. The casket snapped shut and the deadly nimbus reappeared.

  Fistus, whose eyes had not left the tumbling god-bone, caught it left-handed. ‘Abbess Hildy is behind this sacrilege,’ he said to his guards. ‘You know what to do.’

  Roget raised his hand, the candle flames pinched out, and Astatine bolted. She had broken her oath and let down her god. After she told the abbess, she would be cast out.

  * * * *

  Greave pounded through the maze into the forest beyond, running until the full horror of his defeat caught up with him, when he slumped onto the mouldy leaves. There was no way back this time.

  ‘Fistus knew we were coming,’ said Roget, panting. ‘He was waiting for the god-bone.’

  ‘I’ve been manipulated from the beginning,’ said Greave.

  ‘Don’t blame Providence for your own flaws! We’d better get moving,’

  ‘What’s the point? I’ve lost everything.’

  Not yet. But you will if you let me down again.

  Greave felt that icy finger again, though this time K’nacka was ten yards away, perched on a low branch. His belly was shrunken to a pot, his plump cheeks sagged and his eyes darted like rats pursued by a ferret. But he was still a god; he could snuff out Greave’s little sister with a snap of his pudgy fingers.

  ‘What must I do, Lord?’ said Greave.

  The casket was empty. The novice must have stolen the contents for the abbess. She has insulted the Seven Gods and profaned our High Temple. Swear that you will recover the contents then burn the abbey, with everyone inside it, as a sacrifice to me.

  Greave felt sick. He too had insulted a god; he too had profaned the temple, and whether he committed this terrible crime or not, he was also going to die.

  Swear, on your sister’s life.

  He hesitated no longer. His sister was all he had left. Besides, how could he oppose the will of a god? ‘I swear.’

  * * * *

  When Greave reached the abbey he discovered Astatine in its chapel, kneeling before the icons of the Seven Gods in the semi-dark and praying, with quiet desperation, for forgiveness. Exhaustion had temporarily quieted his lust, so he half-shuttered his lantern and examined her sidelong. He could not allow the curse to freeze her until he learned the truth.

  She looked young, innocent and afraid, and his heart went out to her, but he hardened it. Astatine had claimed that she wanted to prevent his sacrilege, then had committed a worse one. She was a liar and a thief, and the choice between her life and his little sister’s was no choice at all.

  ‘Where is it, Novice?’

  She jumped. ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘Whatever was in the casket.’

  She wrung her interlocked fingers. ‘It was empty save for some flakes of ash.’

  ‘Liar! It can only be opened with a god-bone.’

  ‘Someone must have opened it with a different god-bone.’

  ‘If they had, it would not have opened for mine.’

  Greave searched her, roughly, knowing he was hurting her, though she maintained a stoic silence, her gaze fixed on the icons. He found nothing, though of course she was only a novice. The abbess would have the contents now.

  He picked up the lantern but put it down again. He had sworn to torch the abbey, and could not defy his god, but neither could he bear to think of the little novice being burned alive. Far better that she die swiftly and painlessly here.

  As he drew his knife, Astatine turned towards him. Frost had formed all over her, yet her eyes were unflinching in the face of death and it shook him, for he could not have done the same. He cursed; though he was a heartless seducer and a blasphemous oath-breaker, he was not a murderer.

  In a frenzy of despair he slashed his chest, spilling his blood before the icons. It was the best sacrifice he could make, though he knew it would not appease K’nacka. He was standing over Astatine, his blood dripping from the knife, when the abbess opened the door.

  ‘And I thought you’d already plumbed the depths.’

  The Abbess’s voice dripped contempt; evidently she thought he had killed the novice. Hildy limped across and struck at him with her cane, but as he turned to protect himself she stumbled and his knife slid into her side.

  Greave felt such a pain that the blade might have pierced his own flesh, but he fought it down. The god had given him an order and he had to obey. ‘Where are the contents of the casket?’

  ‘I swear by the Seven Gods that the casket was empty,’ said Hildy, holding a hand to the wound. ‘Now get out!’

  * * * *

  As Greave stumbled away, his lantern shaking, Hildy pulled Astatine close. ‘Listen carefully. I’ve had another visi
on, a worse one.’

  The smell of blood was overpowering; unless the bleeding was stopped, the abbess would die. ‘Please, Hildy, sit down. Let me bind the wound.’ Astatine tore a strip from her habit and pressed it against the gash.

  ‘Hush, little sister; it’s too late for me, but the fate of Hightspall lies in the balance and only you can save it.’

  ‘I’m just a novice. I don’t know anything.’