Dark God (16 page)

"Is that it?"

She nodded. "A
simple matter when the dark power is not blocking it. I just wish
you had more time to recover. It will be some time before you cease
to be a bleeder, and the scarring in your brain is still there, it
always will be. Your heart is strong now, but you will have to use
a great deal of power
to
fight the Black Lord.

"A couple of
weeks of rest would be ideal, but we do not have that much time.
Martal barely holds the dark army at bay. His men are dying in
their
hundreds. Tomorrow you
must challenge the Black Lord. The power you wield can no longer
kill you, but it will still cause discomfort, of
course."

"Of course,"
he echoed, his tone tinged with bitterness. A young healer handed
him his cloak, and he swung away, tottering a little, but walked
unaided to his room. Mirra waited there, and jumped up at his
entrance, her eyes alight with joy. He went over to the bed and
sank down on it.
She sat
beside him, scanning his face.

"Do you feel better?"

"My foot does."

She
laughed. "I am sure. What about your
head?"

"I have had no headaches for
several days now."

"And you will not have any
more."

His smile faded. "I feel
strange. Empty, powerless. I had forgotten what it is like to be an
ordinary mortal, although I have never thought of myself as
one."

Mirra longed
to hug him and for him to hold her in return, but
was unsure of his reaction. If he
rejected her, she was not sure she would be able to bear it. "I
wish you did not have to take up the power again. But the Black
Lord's army fights day and night. When the trolls and goblins
withdraw at night, the creatures of darkness come. The soldiers are
exhausted. They cannot hold out much longer."

Bane sighed,
rubbing his brow. The battle sounds, muted by the thick walls,
disturbed everyone's sleep, and clearly he was tired. Weary
soldiers slept in the corridors while their comrades fought, taking
brief interludes to rest and eat before returning to the slaughter.
Healers walked the halls like zombies,
dazed by fatigue and horror.

Mirra stood up. "I will bring
your food, then you must rest and regain your strength for
tomorrow."

"Mirra." His soft voice stopped
her at the door. "Do not watch the Gather tomorrow."

She nodded. "All right."

Chapter
Six

The Gather

An urgent banging on the
door woke Bane, who sat up as it burst open to admit a frightened
healer. A distant roaring came from outside, growing louder. The
gasping healer clung to the door handle, her face ashen, her robe
smeared with blood.

"Demon Lord, we... we need you
now. The trolls have broken through. They are inside the
trenches!"

Bane swung his legs off the bed
with a curse, reaching for his clothes. The desperate screams of
dying men and high-pitched howls of triumphant rock howlers were
alarmingly loud. He dragged on his socks and groped for his boots
under the bed.

"Where is Mirra?"

"She is safe, in the chapel."
The healer swayed with exhaustion, tears streaking her dirty
face.

Pulling on his boots, he donned
a silver-patterned shirt and tucked it into his trousers. He would
not face the Black Lord looking as if he had just been dragged out
of bed. Clipping on his cloak, he ran a hand through his hair, then
remembered that he had to perform a Gather. Cursing, he grabbed the
pack and followed the healer. She led him to the inner garden, and
he stopped in the doorway. Dozens of wounded and dead men lay on
the grass, and blank-eyed healers moved amongst them. Bane went
over to a window in the corridor's far wall and gazed out at the
embattled troops who held the enemy at bay, their lines bowing
under the weight of the attack.

Martal strode
about behind them, shouting orders and curses, his face
beet
-red, his dandified
outfit soiled and streaked with blood. The stench of death hung
heavy in the air, mixed with thick, cloying smoke that stank of
charred flesh. One end of a dormitory wing had been set ablaze
where the trolls had broken through the lines, and soldiers rushed
to plug the breach, weakening other areas of the
trenches.

Clearly Martal
was running out of men, and the goblins already
celebrat
ed their victory.
Fires blossomed like evil flowers around the temple, silhouetting
the cavorting figures that danced about them. Spears whistled over
the walls to thud into the trampled turf, and arrows buzzed
viciously as they flew past. He swung away and entered the inner
garden, where young acolytes huddled together in frightened groups,
clinging to each other. Ellese came over to him and touched his
arm, but he shook her off.

"Bane, hurry. There is little
time. They have broken through the trenches. The soldiers are
holding them at the doors and windows, but I do not know for how
long."

Bane
marched to the centre of the garden
and set out his pots along the edge of the fountain. There would be
no privacy for this Gather. A crash of breaking glass and screams
made him tense, and he forced himself to relax. The sullen sky
brightened with dawn, but the shadows were thick in the garden, an
abundance of free flowing power. Martal entered the garden with his
soldiers, who took up positions at the surrounding corridors'
windows. The Baron spotted Bane and trotted towards him, shouting
obscenities and accusations, but Ellese intercepted him.

The Demon Lord
unclipped his cloak and let it fall, then pulled off his shirt, not
bothering with the buttons. The rune scars had faded to pale pink
now that the dark power no longer lived in him, and he traced one
curiously. To his surprise, it glowed with soft red light, and he
wondered how that was possible when he no longer had any power. He
had no time to ponder the mystery, however. The screams of dying
men could not be ignored. Baron Martal's furious demands echoed
around the garden, despite Ellese's attempts to
keep him quiet.

"My men are dying! What in
Damnation is that scum-sucking pig doing?"

Bane turned to the red-faced
man. "You should watch this, you might learn something."

Martal exploded with curses and
slander, but fell silent when Bane drew his black-bladed dagger.
Fear shone in his eyes as he watched Bane like a mesmerised rabbit.
The Demon Lord drew a harsh breath, and Ellese winced. He raised
the dagger, pressed it to his skin, and cut. Blood trickled down
his chest, and the pain made him bite his tongue. A dozen healers
dashed towards him, but Ellese's shout drove them back. Most fled,
leaving only a few, the soldiers, Martal, and Elder Mother.

Bane tried to
block out the pain as he carved the runes for ultimate power,
starting with the top left. It seemed to hurt more than ever now
that he had been purged, and a cold sweat sheened him. He sliced
the angular symbol with deft strokes, blood running down his chest
and soaking into his trousers. Next he cut the top right symbol,
then the second left, second right, third left. Never had he cut so
many, and he was losing a lot of blood. He carved the third right,
six runes now
oozing blood.
Gritting his teeth, he pressed the dagger to the seventh rune in
the centre of his chest, unused since Arkonen had cut it. It linked
the other six, completing the chain that gave him as much power as
the Black Lord.

Bane cut the rune, put away the
dagger and reached for the empty cup, scraping the blood from his
chest. When it was full, he set it aside and opened the jar of
green ointment, rubbing it into the cuts. The burning paste seared
the wounds and stopped the bleeding, leaving the runes puckered
black scars. More crashes and screams distracted him, then he
picked up the black potion and smeared it over his chest and belly.
Ellese watched him with anguished eyes, and he wanted to tell her
to go away, spare herself, for the worst was yet to come.

Bane
remembered how he had forced Mirra to share this terrible agony,
and wondered how she had borne it. The familiar
floating sensation filled him, and only years of
experience prevented him from grabbing something solid. The black
potion opened his flesh to the dark power, breaking down the
natural barriers that prevented it from invading people. Those who
possessed weak barriers often became black mages. Others just
became evil as the dark power corrupted their souls. Bane had
learnt how to Gather without the potion, it just made it easier and
quicker.

Raising his head, Bane met
Martal's eyes, making the Baron flinch. Most of the people in the
garden stared at him, the soldiers agog, while the healers clutched
each other as they shared his pain. Ellese's eyes overflowed, her
mouth trembling. Bane fixed his cold stare on Martal.

"Now watch, and learn about
power, and what it costs to gain." He looked at Ellese. "You should
not stay here, Elder Mother."

She shook her head, and he
wondered why she would choose to share his suffering.

The Demon Lord closed his eyes
as he steeled himself, filled with a mixture of loathing for what
he was about to do and exultation that he could do it. Taking a
deep breath, he flung out his arms and summoned the dark power, his
head thrown back. It surged out of the shadows at his command,
flooding into him with such sickening force that he staggered. The
seven runes flared brilliant crimson, and Ellese collapsed as the
pain hit her.

The healers
writhed and wailed, falling to tear the grass in a frenzy of agony.
Bane drew back his lips in a silent snarl as the fire was drawn
into his bones, filling him with its power. His eyes turned ink
black and the runes blazed crimson. So powerful was the Gather that
the air filled with an unearthly screaming, like a thousand distant
banshees, a howl of evil rejoicing that made the men cower and
cover their ears. Martal fell to his knees, his hands over his
ears,
his eyes
white-ringed.

Bane's jet mane lifted and
bristled as whorls of dark power eddied around him, licking over
his skin, soaked up like water by a desert's sand. It howled into
him, and the sickness that rose in him made him sway a little. The
seven runes blazed orange now, the Gather increasing as the shadows
rushed into him. He lowered his arms, allowing the Gather to slow,
the shadows cloaking him. Reaching for the blood cup, he measured a
few drops of the black potion into it, then tossed it back in a
gulp, grimacing.

Again he raised his arms in the
final discipline of the Gather, and the shadows rushed into him
once more. Bane stood at the centre of a mighty whirlpool of power,
his flesh burning as more and more soaked in. He gritted his teeth,
fighting to hold the Gather and fill himself with power until he
could contain no more.

As
he reached his limit, shafts of
searing pain lanced his eyes. He cut the Gather and leashed the
power within him, holding it in when it tried to flow out again.
Bile stung his throat, and his outstretched hands clenched. With a
soft curse, he fell to his knees, doubling over to
retch.

When the nausea abated, he
raised his head to look at Martal. Ellese straightened, her
expression anguished. Bane stood up, glaring at the baron, who
scrambled to his feet and backed away.

"Now I could kill you with a
touch, and perhaps I will, for the insults."

Ellese rose her feet. "No,
Bane."

His eyes flicked to her. "Do not
tell me what to do, old woman."

The battle sounds around the
temple had died down, as if the trolls and goblins sensed something
amiss within. Bane advanced on Martal, and Ellese whispered to
another healer, who dashed off. Martal retreated, holding out his
hands in useless supplication.

"Do not beg," Bane grated.
"Begging sickens me."

The seven runes glowed as he
stalked the Baron, enjoying the man's terror. He allowed a little
black fire to escape his fingers, the shadowy flames licking over
his skin.

"You see what real power is? The
power to destroy, to terrify, to bend others to your will. Grovel,
you worthless piece of dung." The Baron fell to his knees, and
Bane's twisted smile broadened. "I had almost forgotten how much
fun this is."

"Bane!"

The Demon
Lord's head
jerked up,
turning in the direction of the cry. Mirra ran towards him, calling
his name again in a frightened, urgent voice. His gaze flicked
around the ruined garden, seeking the reason for her fear, and,
finding none, he frowned. Mirra slowed to approach him a little
uncertainly.

"Bane, do not hurt him."

The Demon Lord glanced down at
Martal, surprised that he was the reason for her distress. Stepping
away from the Baron, he turned to her, but she recoiled, and he
realised that black fire still licked his hands. He leashed it, and
she came closer, stopping before him. After a moment's hesitation,
she took his hand. A sigh wafted around the garden as dozens of
people let out pent breaths.

Mirra gazed up at him, ignoring
the glowing runes. "Your eyes are black."

"As is my soul, right now."

"No, never that. You are good,
deep down."

"The eyes are the windows to the
soul. What you see in them is the truth."

Mirra lowered her gaze to the
runes, placing her other hand on his bloody chest. The intensity of
the corruption within him must have made her stomach clench, he
surmised, but she bore it without showing her discomfort. The
screams of dying soldiers outside made her raise her head to gaze
up at him once more.