Chapter Two
Son of Darkness
Bane strode through his army, which camped in a rolling meadow that had once been covered with wild flowers. Now it was a vast tract of trampled, muddy grass dotted with cooking fires and tents. The horde stretched from a bordering forest to distant woodland, split into its tribal groups. Wood smoke fouled the air, along with the stench of the crude trench latrines on the camp’s outskirts. As Bane approached, trolls, gnomes, men and rock howlers scuttled from his path, opening a broad swathe around him, like a shoal of fish avoiding a shark.
They were having another ceremony on the hillock just ahead. Chanting and drumming carried on the misty dawn air. The horizon had lightened only slightly, and the night chill lingered. His head pounded with the drumming, which had woken him from a restless sleep and put 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 lighted the ghoulish scene. Shadows seemed to trail him, as if his presence darkened the very air around him. Anger boiled in him as he reached the knoll. The chanting died away and the drums fell silent with a discordant thud. He surveyed the scene. A naked woman was lashed to a boulder, smeared with blood and other bodily fluids. She had been dead for some time, but that did not prevent the horde sporting with her.
Bane sneered, “Been having fun?”
Nervous nods answered him. He stepped 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 throng with a flat boom.
Bane glared at them, making them cower 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, ensued. He swung to face those behind him, causing them to surge back with gibbers of terror. “Today, you kill! You drink blood! You torture, 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 marched back to his tent, a half league away. Removing his cloak, he flung it over the folding chair and unbuttoned his tunic’s high collar. 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, “Mord!”
The troll entered warily, his black face a picture of trepidation.
Bane said, “Make my potion! Hurry!”
Mord scuttled out, and Bane clutched his throbbing head. The headaches had started when he was sixteen, and had mastered the great arts of magic. The more he used it, the worse the headache that resulted. 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, setting it gingerly on the 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. His father was well pleased with his work so far. His visits to Bane’s dreams had been full of 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 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’s march. The battles had been mere entertainment, a distraction from his true purpose, though he did enjoy them. As some nobles had fallen, so others had fled, removing 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 the things he had been made to eat and drink in the Underworld had caused them. As a young boy, demons had forced foul black concoctions down his throat while he gagged, writhing in their grip. 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 tormentors had ignored his childish tantrums, or sniggered at them. 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. First he had to find them, however, 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 went 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, which the inner fire’s lurid glow lighted. 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 learnt to control the weather. Banishing the clouds, however, brought out the sun in renewed fury. 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 creatures that scrambled 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 fire. They sheltered from the sun in the trees’ shade, hating the bright light even more than he did. He found their misshapen forms repugnant, yet they were his most powerful followers. They were steeped in the dark power that filled Gor Troth, 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, however. The power had warped them even beyond their original grotesque shapes, yet each breed retained a semblance of its initial 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 malformed than others, but their deformities did not seem to hamper them. Many boasted bat wings, but few could fly. They carried no weapons other than the claws, fangs or spines with which they had been born, and although the dark power had shaped them, 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 some trolls toss 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. While flightless, its powerful legs and sinuous torso made it capable of remarkable speed.
Although not a fire breather, it was comfortable to ride, and it was also the only Overworld animal his touch would not kill, 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 had been well pleased with it. Not only had it been able to survive his touch, but any who ventured too close to it died, which suited Bane perfectly.
The dragon’s chains clanked as it lunged at its handlers, snapping at them as they tossed 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. Dragons did not usually feed that often. They spent most of their time in slothful basking, but this one, ridden daily, needed a great deal of food. When enough 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, 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 since he had mastered the dark power in the Underworld four years ago. Then an air demon, Yangarra, had tried to torment him by sucking the air from his lungs and sniggering as he gasped – the kind of cruel trick it had played on him for years. A burst of dark fire had burnt 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 were attached to a thin chain bridle, and gouged the beast’s muzzle whenever Bane jerked on the reins. He pulled it onto the cowering beast’s head and fastened it so 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, hurt by his touch. He prodded it with a 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 town at its far end. Only a few aged livestock and an old man who died of fright when he saw the first troll inhabited it. Although expected, Bane found the Overworld people’s cowardice annoying. It robbed 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 amongst them. If he could find fault with one of them, he could devise a painful punishment for his amusement. The men cowered, 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 old, weak, sick or injured stragglers that could provide sport for the evening.
By the end of the day, a group of trolls had found only one child lost in the woods, but 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 he craved, although 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.
By the time they camped for the night, Bane’s mood had turned ugly, and he kicked Mord when the troll brought his supper. The food, a reddish 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 his son’s health, although Bane was unsure how Overworld food could poison him when he was so powerful. His father seldom explained things, however. He simply expected obedience.
Like making Bane hate women. He must have had a reason, but he had never told Bane what it was. Instead, he had told his son stories about witches and evil women since he had been old enough to understand them. Then, when Bane was fifteen, the Black Lord had captured a pretty girl and brought her to the Underworld. She had begged Bane for mercy, 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, she had fascinated him, but his father’s mockery and the demons’ baiting had made him hate her, 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. None lived up to the stories 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 he had been forced to undergo, which the Black Lord had told him were to give him the ability to wield the dark power. Demons had cut him, collected his blood, mixed it with potions and fed it to him. Bane had vomited for days, and his father had railed at his weakness. This had confused him, for no one else in the Underworld had blood, or underwent the ceremonies. When he had questioned his father, the Black Lord explained that he had been created a certain way, so he could go to the Overworld and break the wards.
Bane flung the empty bowl out of the tent and lay down, stretching out on the hard cot. His lithe, powerful physique was also a gift from the Black Lord. Bane had undergone years of forced labour; useless, strenuous tasks that made his body bulge in odd places. True, he was strong, but he had hated the labour. He had broken rocks and dug new tunnels, which his father could create with a flick of his hand, while demons watched and sniggered as he sweated. That had stopped when he mastered the dark power. He smiled. His father had been pleased with him when at last he had been able to wield the power. After he had destroyed Yangarra, the demons ceased to torment him, and life had been good. Still pondering, he fell asleep.