Dark God

by T C Southwell

  Bane glanced down at his black garb. "I suppose I should get some new clothes."

  Mirra nodded, eyeing his outfit, which she thought rather attractive, for the clothes suited him. "Your attire is rather distinctive."

  "Do you think people will still recognise me without them?"

  She hesitated. "Perhaps."

  "That will be a pity."

  After lunch, Mirra sought out the grey-eyed soldier, Grem, and asked him to take them into town in the cart. He agreed without hesitation, and she asked him to drop them off just outside the village, so they could walk into it, thereby giving the townsfolk time to retreat if they found Bane's presence alarming. The last thing she wanted was to cause panic, which might result if the Demon Lord appeared in their midst without warning. The Town of Rill River was several miles away, at the end of a rutted road that wound through the forest and down into a sleepy dale with a stream, known, somewhat ambiguously, as the Honey Spate, running through it.

  Grem dropped them off where the farmers' fields gave way to thatched cottages, promising to return in a couple of hours to take them back. As they walked into town, Mirra glanced at Bane, wondering if they would have any trouble. The villagers might not like a dark god walking amongst them, but she doubted that they would try to do anything about it. He radiated arrogance, and his features belonged to the aristocracy, as did the confident tilt of his head and look in his eyes.

  Bane gazed around with keen interest, and she realised that he still found it novel to be in a New Kingdom village when the people were not screaming and running for their lives. Unlike the people in the villages they had passed through on their journey to the Lady's Temple, everyone in this village knew the Demon Lord resided at the temple, and no one would doubt his identity.

  The villagers reacted to his presence in a number of ways. Some dived into shops and alleyways, others backed off or sidled away. Braver ones stopped and stared at him; women swept up their children and ran. Unattended youngsters gaped, and a few set up a brave procession, following him at a distance. A man spat on the street in front of them, then hastened away when Bane looked at him.

  No one shouted insults, threatened him, or threw anything, to Mirra's relief. She took him to the tailor's shop, a rather fancy building that the wealthier patronised. The bell rigged to the door jingled as they entered the shop, and a small, whippet-thin man popped up from under the counter, goggled at Bane and ducked down again.

  Bane wandered around, inspecting the coarsely made shirts and rough trousers on the shelves. The tailor peeped over the counter, and, seeing that the Demon Lord was not there for his blood, approached, wringing his hands.

  "M-My Lord, th-those are for peasants."

  Bane swung around, and the little man almost fainted. "Indeed, they seem of poor quality." He watched curiously as the tailor tottered, then his glazing eyes cleared.

  "Y-yes, My Lord, I have b-better clothes."

  "Show me."

  The tailor looked anguished. "I don't think I have any that w-would fit you, My Lord."

  "Then you can make some?"

  "Yes, My Lord."

  "Good. When will they be ready?"

  "Tomorrow? W-would that be all right, My Lord?"

  Bane nodded. "I want good strong clothes, quality material, and not black."

  "I-I have to m-measure you, My Lord."

  Mirra feared the poor man would have a heart attack if he came close to Bane, but he resolutely pulled out a tape measure and approached. His hands shook as he measured Bane's leg, and he did not touch the Demon Lord, his hand hovered a couple of inches away. When he had to measure Bane's neck, he was sweating so much he had to keep wiping it out of his eyes. Bane glanced at him as he tottered atop a stool.

  "I do not bite, so kindly stop dithering."

  The tailor made a valiant attempt, and got the tape around Bane's neck, then almost fell off the stool, shaking with relief. As he was scribbling his notes, they left.

  Outside, they encountered a hastily dispersing crowd. Bane called after them, "He is still alive!"

  Mirra tugged his arm. "Bane! Stop that."

  "They are being stupid."

  "They cannot help it. They are scared of you."

  Bane sighed, and they walked on through the village. The street emptied before them, but for a group of young boys playing stones. They were only about five or six, and oblivious to the agitated calls from the adults who hid nearby. Bane walked over and stopped to gaze down at them, a curious look in his eyes.

  "I should have done that when I was a boy."

  "What games did you play?"

  His mouth twisted. "Hide from the droges. It was not a game, and it certainly was not fun."

  A boy looked up, yelled and ran, knocking down the smallest. In the ensuing scramble to escape, the poor child was buffeted and bruised. He lay on the street, wailing, and Mirra scooped him up, then turned at a shriek of dismay close by. A woman ran up, her face twisted with trepidation, her fear for her child's safety driving her to approach. She ran out of courage about three feet from Bane, her eyes riveted to him as if she was afraid to look away lest he strike her down.

  The boy wailed, and Mirra soothed him with soft words and brushed the dirt from his knees. The woman held out her arms.

  "Please, healer, give him to me."

  Mirra walked over to her, and the woman stepped forward to snatch the boy away so violently he began to cry again, sensing her fear. She backed away, inspecting the lad as if expecting to find missing fingers and toes.

  Bane opened his mouth as Mirra returned to his side, and she jabbed him in the ribs, knowing he was about to say something bitingly sarcastic. He glanced at her, then smiled and shook his head, allowing her to tug him away. Behind them, a crowd gathered around the woman and joined in her intense scrutiny, the poor child wailing his distress.

  Bane looked puzzled. "Why are they so concerned about the boy? He only fell down."

  "It is not that. It is because he was so close to you."

  "I did not touch him."

  "It does not matter. They think you have the evil eye."

  Bane frowned, and Mirra slipped her hand into his, wishing people would not be so quick to judge him badly, but rather remember the good he had done. Bane would not harm anyone now, she was certain, not unless they tried to harm him first, which seemed unlikely. Once he had given up his power, however, he would be as vulnerable as any other mortal, and that worried her. As they walked out of the village, she wondered if she could set up some sort of event that would infuse the villagers with a little trust in Bane.

  The next morning, they returned to collect Bane's new clothes, which the tailor had undoubtedly slaved over all night, for Mirra had never heard of a suit of clothes being made so quickly. Grem dropped them off on the village's outskirts on his way to fetch eggs from a farmer, and their stroll through Rill River was a repeat performance of the previous day. Bane had not yet been purged. He had requested that it be done that afternoon, and Mirra wondered if he was concerned for his safety.

  As they strolled towards the tailor's shop, the sound of distant screams made Mirra glance around in alarm. Bane spread his hands when she turned to him, shaking his head.

  "It is not me."

  "I know." She took his hand and tried to tug him towards the sound, but he dug in his heels. "Come on, maybe we can help," she urged.

  "They will just scream louder if they see me coming."

  Mirra thought that quite possible. "You might be able to show them that they can trust you."

  "More likely I will be blamed for whatever is happening."

  The screams redoubled, and she released him and trotted towards the sound. "I will see if I can help."

  Bane gazed after her, then followed. They rounded a building to find a crowd facing the side of a house, surging and screaming. A boy of about ten clung to a window ledge, his face white with terror. Beneath him, a large, mangy dog crouched and snarled, foam dripping fro
m its mouth. It was intent on the boy, leaping up against the wall to try to bite his dangling legs, and every time it did, the crowd screamed. No one was armed with a bow, and no one had the courage to take on a rabid dog. The boy was tiring, his fingers slipping on the ledge.

  Bane muttered, "My namesake."

  "Bane..." Mirra trailed off as he walked past her. The crowd parted to let him through, people recoiling as he passed them. He walked towards the dog, which ignored him, intent on its prey. The boy gibbered with fear when he saw the Demon Lord approaching, his eyes becoming white-ringed. The dog finally turned its attention to Bane when he was almost upon it. It whipped around and sprang at him, teeth bared.

  Bane made a swift chopping motion, and the animal burst into flames, dying instantly. The Demon Lord glanced up at the boy, then walked away. Mirra hurried after him as people rushed to help the boy down. She caught up with him back in the main street.

  "Why did you leave so quickly? I thought you would help the child down."

  "And be accused of causing his next bout of diarrhoea? I think not."

  Mirra hung her head, knowing that he was right.

  At the tailor's shop, the little man scuttled about in a frenzy of nervousness, presenting Bane with a smart but hardy white shirt, a dark blue coat of impeccable cut and trousers to match. Bane inspected the goods with satisfaction, ordering three more shirts and two more pairs of trousers.

  The tailor's face fell. "Tomorrow, lord?" Bags hung under his eyes.

  Bane started to nod, but Mirra said, "No, in a few days."

  The man slumped with relief as the doorbell jingled. A burly farmer, his honest, careworn face tight with fear, stood wringing his cloth cap in the doorway. One callused hand rested on the thin shoulder of the boy whom the rabid dog had trapped. Bane glanced at him, then turned back to the tailor and continued to inspect the clothes.

  The farmer cleared his throat, but Bane ignored him, and his lack of interest puzzled Mirra.

  The farmer coughed again. "Beggin' yer pardon, Lord."

  Bane turned slowly, his eyes cold. "Yes?"

  The farmer cringed, and the boy was agog. "I - I wanted to thank yer, fer what yer done, m'lord."

  The Demon Lord shrugged. "Is he all right?"

  "Aye, sir, that 'e is."

  "Good. I would have helped him down, but then I would have been blamed for giving him warts or something."

  The man bowed under a mountain of shame. "Us folks ain't treatin' yer right, I know. The 'ealers say yer okay, but I 'eard about the boy yesterday."

  "I did nothing to the child."

  "I know, Sire, we all do, it's just... hard, yer know?"

  Bane sighed. "Indeed. But if I wished people harm, why did I save them?"

  The farmer nodded. "That be true, Yer Grace. Folks will come around, they just needs a bit o' time." He nudged his son. "Thank the lord, Marel."

  The boy performed an awkward, gawky bow, his eyes wide, and mumbled.

  Bane looked at the farmer. "Presumably you were not there."

  "Nay, sir, I 'eard what 'appened, it's all over town. I was out in me fields."

  "What are they saying?"

  He shuffled his feet. "Well, Sire, they do say yer not as bad as they thought."

  "How bad do they think I am now?"

  "Not so bad, m'lord."

  Bane nodded, and the farmer retreated, dragging his son and bumping into the door on his way out, bowing. Bane turned his attention to the tailor, who cringed.

  "What do I owe you?"

  "N-nothing, My Lord, not a penny!"

  Bane glanced at Mirra, looking puzzled. "Is it not customary for tradesmen to demand payment for their work?"

  "It is."

  The tailor backed away, white with terror, and Bane frowned at him. "Bring me your money."

  The man fled, returning a few moments later with a rattling money-box, which he emptied onto the table, almost weeping. Bane surveyed the motley collection of copper, brass, and a smattering of silver. It was probably the tailor's life savings, and Mirra smiled, knowing what Bane was about to do. The Demon Lord laid his hand on the money, and it turned to gold. The tailor gasped, twisting his tape measure and staring at it with bulging eyes. Bane picked up his parcel and turned away, unaware, Mirra suspected, that he had just made the tailor the richest man in the village.

  That afternoon, Bane renounced the dark power. He left the temple and walked out beyond the hallowed ground, where he spread his hands and let the shadows pour from his fingers. It sank into the ground like black smoke, soaking away without a trace, drawn back into the Underworld. When he could shed no more, he returned to the temple, where he was painlessly purged of the last dregs. He lay on the altar encased in the blue glow for several hours, and, when the last glimmer died, he returned to his room to don his new clothes. Without his distinctive garb, and lacking the aura the dark power bequeathed, he could pass at a glance for nothing more than a strikingly handsome young man. The only indelible marks of his ordeal were the rune scars, but they were hidden under his shirt.

  The following day, he discovered, as the Goddess had promised, that sunlight no longer hurt his eyes and water was quite enjoyable. He was willing now to seek out his father, hinting to Mirra that his help might be needed, and Ellese procured two sturdy horses to take them on the journey.

  A healer collected Bane's new clothes from the tailor, and brought back five shirts, two coats and three pairs of trousers, instead of what he had ordered. He went through his leather pack and discarded all the potions except for the green paste, which he would need for several more months. He toyed with the idea of throwing away his Underworld clothes, but decided against it, and packed them. The only articles of his original clothes he still wore were the strong boots and silver-studded wrist guards.

  As they prepared to leave the following day, surrounded by Mirra's friends and several Elder Mothers, including Ellese and the Abbess, Grem appeared, leading his horse.

  "My lord," he said, "I'd like to accompany you, if you'll allow me."

  Bane's brows rose in surprise.

  Grem smiled. "I reckon there may be some ill will towards you out there. Not everyone believes you're a god, you know. And looking at you, I can see why. Where you're going is hill country. Folks are pretty secluded, but there's always a chance someone will recognise you, even in your new togs."

  "It sounds like you want to be my bodyguard."

  "Reckon I do. I'm handy with a sword, been a mercenary since I was seventeen, and that's a few years. Begging your pardon, but I've never seen you with a weapon, other than that little dagger."

  "I have not needed one." Bane paused, thinking. "I did use a sword against the Black Lord, but there was no skill involved on either side. It must still be lying out there somewhere."

  Grem's smile widened. "Well I reckon you might need a weapon now, and I'm it. I enjoy travelling. Never been out that way before." He hesitated, and his grey eyes twinkled. "I heard you pay pretty good, too."

  Bane chuckled. "Bring plenty of coppers, and I will make it worth your while."

  "I got plenty of coppers."

  Bane nodded. "Then I would be pleased by your company, though I hope your skills are not required."

  Grem hesitated, studying Bane. "May I ask a question?"

  "Certainly."

  "Do you want to be called by your title?"

  Bane tilted his head. "What title is that?"

  "'Lord'."

  "Ah. No, I would prefer that you use my name."

  Grem smiled and nodded. "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "I have never asked anyone to call me 'lord', and if we are to be companions I would rather you try to forget I am anything other than a man."

  "That may not be so easy, but I'll do my best."

  "Good."

  Mirra hugged all of her friends, and Elder Mother at last embraced Bane. He endured it with good grace, and as she stepped back, she cupped his cheek and gazed into his eyes.r />
  "Your father's name is Mithran."

  Bane inclined his head, then turned and mounted the chunky grey gelding. They left the temple amid a throng of waving healers, Ellese's eyes bright. The horses' hooves clattered down the road, the temple dwindling until it was out of sight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Father of the Curse

  Bane gazed down at the sleepy town of Nine Bells nestled in a hollow amongst the wooded hills. The setting sun gilded thatched houses and a small lake beyond. Belts of pale ghost trees mingled with a surfeit of broad-leafed dragon pines and clumps of lofty arrow-woods. Bane's face was taut with apprehension, for this was the village near his father's cabin. According to the healers, Mithran lived somewhere in the surrounding hills. Mirra urged her horse closer and slipped her hand into his, drawing a smile from him, but it swiftly faded.

  "What if he does not believe me?"

  She squeezed his hand. Bane had grown increasingly unsure as they neared their destination. "I am sure he will, and he will be overjoyed."

  Bane looked at Grem, who shrugged. "If I was your da, I'd not turn away my son, no matter who he had been."

  "I still am."

  Grem looked unimpressed. "No one needs to know, not even him."

  "I cannot hide the scars from him for long."

  Mirra said, "I think you should tell him."

  Grem shifted in his saddle. "I doubt it'll make a difference. Who knows, he may even like having a god for a son."

  Glancing from one to the other, Bane smiled. "Such optimism. I suppose we will just have to see." He urged his horse down the final hill, Mirra and Grem following.

  The village did not cater for travellers, but there was an alehouse with a shed at the back where they stabled the horses. The chubby, jolly proprietor was delighted to rent them two rooms, Bane and Mirra sharing one, which had two beds in it. She had no doubt that a couple of servants would be sharing the shed with the horses that night.

  The common room spanned the entire ground floor, strewn with sturdy, much-repaired furniture and sweet-smelling sawdust. Cheerful chintz curtains framed lead-paned windows, and polished brass pots hung over the fireplace. Whatever hardships the villagers had endured during the Black Lord's ascension had barely left a mark. Only a few dead trees stood in the forest and patches of ash lay here and there.