|
T C Southwell
________________________________________________________________
T. C. Southwell
___________________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER TWO
Son of Darkness
Bane strode through his army, which was camped in a large rolling meadow, once covered with wild flowers, now a vast tract of trampled, muddy grass dotted with cooking fires and small tents. The horde stretched from forest to woodland, split into their ethnic and tribal groups. Wood smoke fouled the air, along with the stench of the crude trench latrines on the outskirts of the camp. As he moved through them, trolls, gnomes, men and rock howlers scuttled from his path, opening a broad swathe before him, like a shoal of fish avoiding a shark.
They were having another ceremony on the small hillock just ahead, the chanting and pounding of drums filled the misty dawn air. The horizon had started to lighten only slightly, and the night chill lingered. His head pounded with the drumming, which had woken him from a restless sleep, putting him in a foul mood. His long black cloak, lined with crimson satin, swept the ground, the gold designs on his black tunic glinted in the glow of the many fires that lit the ghoulish scene. Shadows seemed to trail him, and his presence darkened the very air around him. Anger boiled in him as he reached the small knoll. Instantly the chanting died, and the drums fell silent with a discordant thud. He surveyed the scene. A naked woman was lashed to a large boulder, smeared with blood and other bodily fluids. She had been dead for some time, but that did not prevent the horde from sporting with her. He gazed around with a sneer, his eyes hard beneath lowered brows.
"Been having fun?"
Nervous nods answered him. He strode towards the drummer, who abandoned his crude instruments and dived into the retreating crowd. No member of the horde would come within five feet of Bane, they knew him too well. He kicked the drums, sending them bouncing into the crowd with a flat boom.
Bane glared at them, making them cower back further from his ire. His deep voice lashed out like a barbed whip. "You think my father enjoys these things? Do you think he listens to your pathetic prayers? What makes you think he will grant power to a pack of fools raping a dead woman? He has no time for gobbledegook! He wants blood! Death! Souls to torture!" He paused to let that sink in; then added, "And you will not disturb my rest with your infernal racket!"
Dead silence, broken only by the shuffling of retreating feet and paws, answered him. He swung to face those behind him, causing them to surge back with a soft gibber of terror. "Today, you kill! You drink blood! You torture and maim and make them suffer! You burn, pillage, loot! That is what he wants!"
A muted growl of assent greeted this. Bane flicked a finger at the corpse. "You will not waste your time with corpses, use a live woman, or go without! She cannot suffer, you fools!"
Bane spun, and a dozen gnomes ran for their lives. Ignoring them, he strode back to his tent, a full half league away. Removing the cloak, he flung it across a chair, unbuttoning the high collar of his tunic. The headache beat at his skull, even though the annoying drums had stopped. He groaned as he sank onto his bed, rubbing his temples in an effort to relieve the pain. Why did his father allow him to suffer like this? He cursed and shouted for Mord. The troll entered warily, his twisted black face a picture of trepidation.
Bane snarled, "Make my potion! Hurry!"
Mord scuttled out, and Bane clutched his throbbing head. The headaches had started when he was sixteen, and had finally mastered the great arts of magic. The more he used it, the worse the headache. At first they had been mild, a mere irritation, but now they annoyed him immensely, making his life a misery at times. His father, the Black Lord, had been unsympathetic, blaming it on his weak human body. Maelle, a fire demon, had given him the drug that soothed it, but warned him not to take too much. The demon's sly grin had angered Bane, and he had tested the potion on a human captive before taking it himself, he knew better than to trust a demon. He tried to take the potion as little as possible, only when the pain became unbearable did he resort to it. He had not used the dark power since yesterday, and the pain had been building since then.
Mord returned with the infusion, putting it gingerly on the small table before scuttling out again, to wait within call. Bane slugged back the foul tasting brew; then threw the cup out of the tent flap and lay back, waiting for the drug to work. His father was well pleased with his work so far, his visits to Bane's dreams had been filled with praise and encouragement. The army had grown and advanced, almost unimpeded by the puny forces sent against it.
The Overworld had no great monarch to unite it; the land was split between many nobles, barons and lords, petty kings and princes, each guarding their small demesnes with jealous fervour. Each had called upon their people for an army, but none had raised one large enough to do more than delay Bane on his march. The battles had been mere entertainment, a small distraction from his true purpose, though he did enjoy them. As some nobles had fallen, so others had fled, removing themselves and their armies from his path. Now they marched through empty lands, but he would catch up with the people when they reached the sea, for then there would be no escape.
Bane thought about the headaches again. He was sure that they had been caused by the things he had been made to eat and drink in the Underworld. As a young boy, foul black concoctions had been forced down his throat while he gagged, writhing in the grip of demons. His skin had erupted in sores and pustules shortly after, and at one point, all his hair had fallen out. It had grown back, thicker and blacker than before, but he had been angry. For the most part his childish tantrums had been ignored, or sniggered at by his tormentors. Demands to see his father had been denied, and when he had complained to the Black Lord, he had found an unsympathetic ear. His power was now as great as the Black Lord's, and he was free to walk the earth, which his father was not until Bane destroyed the wards. But first he had to find them, and so far he had not come across any sign that they even existed.
As the headache ebbed to a more bearable level, he rose and walked outside, glancing irritably at the sun, which rose in golden glory, a point of hot white light that stabbed at his eyes. He was still not used to its brightness; he preferred the dim, warm caverns of the Underworld, lit by the lurid glow of the inner fire. Why his father wished to conquer this awful place was beyond him, he just wanted to go home. He found the sun too bright, the nights too cold, and revolting water had fallen from the sky until he had learned to control the weather. But banishing the clouds brought out the sun in renewed fury, and gathering the fleecy white puffballs to block out the hated sun inevitably led to a drenching. Either way, he could not win, and now rarely bothered to interfere with the weather other than to deflect gathering storms.
Bane strolled through the camp, ignoring the scrambling of creatures from his path, engrossed in his thoughts. The killing was satisfying, he had to admit, never had there been so many victims. The ones brought to the Underworld had died far too quickly, some before they could be tortured. As he walked past a clump of trees, his eyes were drawn to a group of dark creatures around a small fire. They sheltered from the sun in the dimness of the trees, hating the bright light even more than he did. He found their misshapen forms repugnant, yet they were the most powerful of all his followers, steeped in the dark power that they found in the huge cavern that led into the descending tunnel to the Underworld.
They were unable to open the World Gate through which he had emerged, and the power had twisted them even beyond their original grotesque shapes, yet each breed retained a semblance of their former design. They came in a variety of species, and kept to their bands. Grims, wights and vampires generally avoided the larger nasties, night crawlers, grotesques and weirds. No two were exactly alike, some being more twisted than others, but their deformities did not seem to hamper them. Many boasted bat wings, but few could actually fly. They carried no weapons other than the claws, fangs or spines with which they had been born, and although they had been shaped by the dark power, none could wield it. They growled as they watched him pass, their eyes glowing in the firelight.
Arriving at the place where his mount was tethered, he watched as trolls tossed meat to it, keeping well clear of its teeth and talons. The lesser red dragon turned baleful yellow eyes upon its master, snapping its jaws in his direction. Armed with a formidable array of teeth, claws and spines, a dragon, even a small red like this one, was a fearsome beast. It was flightless, but equipped with powerful legs and a sinuous body that could move with remarkable speed.
Although not a fire breather, it was comfortable to ride, and it was also the only Overworld animal that would not be killed by his touch, he had discovered. When first he had come across a horse, he had attempted to ride it, but the beast had gone into a foaming frenzy and collapsed. Irked by this, Bane had banished all horses from his army, forcing the men to march. He had captured a dragon instead, and was well pleased with it. Not only was it able to survive his touch, but any who ventured too close to it would die, which suited Bane perfectly.
Its chains clanked as it lunged at its handlers, snapping at them as they tossed the meat. It preferred live prey, and would have rather have eaten live troll than dead human. Feeding it was no problem; a few humans were killed every day. Normally dragons did not feed that often, spending most of their time in slothful basking, but this one, ridden daily, needed a great deal of food. When enough of the wards had been broken, he would be able to summon a Demon Steed, but until then, the dragon would suffice.
As Bane approached, it cowered away from him, tugging at the chains. He smiled, enjoying his power. Everything was afraid of him, and he liked that. No one had dared to touch him in years, not since he had mastered the dark power in the Underworld. Then an air demon, Yangarra, had tried to torment him, sucking the air from his lungs and sniggering as he gasped; the kind of cruel trick that it had played on him for years. A burst of dark fire had burned it to ash. He had suffered the headache afterwards, and his father's wrath, but it had been worth it. His father had not dared to punish him.
Bane picked up the cruel headgear that allowed him to control the dragon, vicious spikes attached to a thin chain bridle that gouged the beast's muzzle whenever Bane jerked on the reins. He pulled it onto the cowering beast's head, fastening it firmly, so that it could not be shaken off. The trolls shuffled away as he threw the thick woolly skin over the animal's back and mounted. The dragon writhed beneath him, hurt by his touch, and he prodded it with the sharp metal goad, making it lurch forward into its smooth flowing run with a resentful hiss.
The army followed him through the next valley and into a small town at its far end, inhabited only by a few aged livestock and an old man who died of fright when he saw the first troll. Although expected, Bane found the Overworld people's cowardice annoying, robbing him of his daily entertainment. The troops took some enjoyment in setting the village alight, but Bane found little satisfaction in that.
Leaving the town to burn, he led them down the road a few leagues before he stopped and turned to survey them with narrowed eyes, searching for a bold look or a defiant air among them. If he could find fault with one of them, he could devise a painful punishment for his amusement. The men cowered from him, giving him no excuse for such an action, and he snorted in annoyance. If he tortured one of them for no reason they would leave, and he did not relish the prospect of doing everything himself. He turned and led them onwards. There had to be some stragglers to kill, some old, weak, sick or injured, that could provide sport for the evening.
By the end of the day they had only found one child lost in the woods, but the trolls who had found him had torn him apart in their eagerness. When Bane found out about this, he had them whipped for cheating him of his evening's entertainment. That provided some small measure of the amusement that he craved, but it was not as satisfying as torturing an innocent. He was tempted to scry, but that used the dark power, and would bring back the headache.
Bane's mood had turned ugly by the time they camped for the night, and he kicked Mord when the troll brought him his supper. The food, a foul concoction sent from the Underworld, was his only sustenance. He pondered it as he ate, ignoring its bitter taste. As an Underworld creature, Overworld food would be poison to him, his father had said. The Black Lord was naturally concerned for the health of his son, although Bane was unsure how Overworld food could poison him when he was so powerful. But his father seldom explained things to him, simply expecting obedience.
Like making Bane hate women. He must have had a reason, but he had never told Bane what it was. Instead he had filled his son's head with terrible stories about witches and evil women since he had been old enough to understand them. Then, when Bane was fifteen, he had captured a pretty young girl and brought her to the Underworld. The girl had begged for mercy, turning to Bane, since he was the only creature there who even resembled a human. Every time he had looked at her, his father had grown angry, accusing him of weakness and sentiment. At first he had been fascinated by her, but eventually his father's mockery and the demons' baiting had made him hate the girl, and his father had ordered him to kill her.
Up here he had come across many women, and found that they died as easily as men, and none lived up to the stories that his father had told him. Not even the healers in the abbeys, they had been the easiest to kill, for they did not even try to flee. He never doubted his father, but many things had confused him over the years.
Like all the painful ceremonies that he had been forced to undergo, which the Black Lord had told him were to give him the ability to wield the dark power. They had cut him, collected his blood, mixed it with potions and fed it to him. Bane had vomited for days, and his father had been angry, railing at his weakness. This had confused him, for no one else in the Underworld had blood, as he did, and no one else underwent the ceremonies but him. When he had questioned his father, the Black Lord had explained that he had been created a certain way, so that he could go to the Overworld and break the wards.
Bane flung the empty bowl out of the tent and lay down on his bed, stretching out his long, lithe body on the hard cot. That too, was a gift from the Black Lord, years of forced labour, useless, strenuous tasks that had made his body bulge in odd places. True, he was strong, but he had hated the labour. Breaking rocks and digging new tunnels, which his father could create with a flick of his hand, while the demons watched and sniggered as he sweated. All that had stopped when he had mastered the dark power. He smiled. His father had been pleased with him that day, when at last he had been able to wield the power. After he had destroyed Yangarra, the demons had ceased to torment him, and life had been good. Still pondering, he fell asleep.