Hundreds of attackers vanished into the murder holes to die on the stakes within, but that hardly caused a dent in the numbers that charged up to the stockade and climbed over it, only to be met by a wall of spears, lances and swords as they dropped down inside. The archers quit their positions atop the earthworks and retreated to the temple walls, where they shot the invaders as they climbed over the barricade. The trebuchet let fly their deadly cargo of burning rocks with dull booms of wood on iron, and soldiers scrambled to reload them.
The horde came howling from the wooded hills, blackening the land for miles around. Martal's men hacked down the dark people who swarmed over them in a shrieking, growling frenzy, driven by the insane bloodlust the Black Lord had forced upon them. Soldiers screamed as claws and teeth tore them, some were dragged from the battlements to be ripped apart by the rabble.
Soon blood soaked the soil, and mounds of dead grew on the embankment's slope, forcing the attackers to climb over the bodies. The sharpened stakes impaled dozens of dark folk as those behind thrust them onto the deadly points. The earthworks protected Martal's men, who killed three or four for every soldier who fell, but the black tide did not ebb.
Their training and discipline gave the soldiers another advantage, for the mob had no idea of how to fight a battle, other than to fling themselves upon the enemy in their droves. The soldiers locked their shields together in a wall and jabbed through it with swords and lances, and a reserve troop patrolled behind the trench, ready to plug any breach. They would dive into the melee whenever a section of the wall was overwhelmed, driving back the monsters that boiled into the trench with a storm of armoured brawn and sharp blades.
When it seemed that the horde would overcome the defenders, archers fired burning arrows into the oil-soaked trench. A wall of flame sprang up around the temple, killing any who stood atop it and driving back those behind. Thick black smoke rolled up, filling the temple with stinging, acrid fumes. The fire trench bought precious time as it held back the horde; those inside it cut off from reinforcements and retreat.
The battleground stench invaded the temple, and young healers moaned and sobbed as they shared the soldiers' pain. More experienced healers stood behind the men, carrying away the wounded for those who still had a little power to heal.
Bane paused on his way to the chapel to listen to the battle. He did not have to imagine the carnage that was going on outside; he had seen its like before. Ellese looked back at him, her eyes filled with the suffering she shared with the dying men.
At the purging, blue fire still glowed around Bane, and the burning in his flesh grew unbearable again, even though he tried to endure it for longer. The battle sounds came clearly through the chapel's shattered windows, forcing the healers to concentrate harder on their task. When the purge was over, two healers helped him back to his room, where he collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. The dark power was almost gone, and for the first time in four years he lacked the ability to defend himself.
Mirra woke him with his dinner, a thick vegetable stew full of beans and lentils, followed by bread and cheese. She sat on the chair and studied him while he ate, pleased that his eyes were no longer bloodshot and his lips had lost the unnatural red hue. His skin had taken on a healthy glow, and no shadows lurked around his eyes.
"Tomorrow they will heal you."
Bane looked up. "Ellese said that the last purge will be tomorrow."
"Yes, both. We have no time. The day after tomorrow, you must fight the Black Lord. The battle goes badly. Martal lost a third of his men today in spite of the healers who stood behind them, healing those who fell. Without sunlight, our power will soon fail, and then the injured will die too."
Bane put down the empty bowl. "Why have they not given you any power?"
"I do not need it, and there is precious little."
"So now we are both ordinary mortals, powerless."
"Do you miss it?"
He shrugged. "Of course. I am used to being invincible."
"Do you still intend to go to the Underworld when you have defeated the Black Lord?"
He regarded her with flat, expressionless eyes, and she held her breath, dreading his answer. "No."
Joy swelled her heart, and she looked away. "Any particular reason for your change of heart?"
His expression became even more shuttered. "I doubt I would be welcome there. Even if I cast Arkonen down and strip him of his power, he will regain it unless I destroy him."
"Can you do that?"
"I do not know. His spirit is very powerful, and, unless I can hold him here long enough to destroy his soul, he will retreat to the Land of the Dead, where I cannot go while I am mortal."
"I see." She strived to hide her disappointment. "But you will give up the dark power when it is over?"
"I do not know. Why should I? Without it I will be defenceless."
"You must. It makes you ill. It will, even after you are healed, and it will corrupt your soul."
He looked away. "I think it has already done that."
"No." She left the chair and went to sit beside him on the bed, longing to take his hand but lacking the courage. "Your soul is still pure. You would not be helping us if you were evil."
"This is revenge. It has nothing to do with helping you."
"The Lady would not have appeared to you if you were corrupted."
"She had no choice. I threatened to destroy her precious Overworld."
She stared at him, horrified. "Why?"
He stood up and moved away. "Enough questions now."
"How could you destroy the Overworld?"
He hesitated. "I could do what Arkonen is doing, quite easily. Block out the sun, and the Overworld dies. Even more than that, I could..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"But you would not."
"No." He ran a hand through his hair, combing it into shining wings. "I will undo what Arkonen has done. After that, it is up to your goddess."
Recalling her conversation with Elder Mother the previous night, she decided to see if she could find out whether or not he knew what he was. "But if you tried, surely the Lady could stop you?"
"If she could, she would stop Arkonen, so I do not think she can."
"How can you be more powerful than a goddess?"
Bane shrugged, staring out of the window. "I do not know. It would seem that Arkonen is more powerful than her."
"Arkonen is a god."
"And I am just a mortal man."
She bit her lip, unable to agree with that. She was not sure if his ignorance was a good thing, or bad.
The Demon Lord turned to her, his mouth twisted in a bitter line. "And yet, I am Arkonen's equal. So, if he is more powerful than the Lady, so am I."
Bane’s intention to keep the dark power dismayed her. That, she had not expected. Yet, on reflection, she realised that as much as Bane hated Arkonen and all he had done to him, he was accustomed to having the power. He had paid dearly for it, and clearly could see no advantage in giving it up, hated as he was by the people and marked forever by the rune scars.
"What will you do?" she asked.
Bane gazed out of the window again. "Find somewhere where I will be left alone."
"Will you be happy?"
"Probably not."
"Then why choose it?"
"What other choice is there?"
She looked down at her twisting hands. "If you gave up the power, in time, people might learn to accept you. You could make some friends and live an almost normal life."
"Do black mages have normal lives?"
"I do not know. They worship the Black Lord, so they are not generally accepted. They ally themselves with powerful rulers, using their magic to aid their patrons. But you could not do that. Your power is absolute."
"I will not serve some primping king."
Mirra shook her head. "If you do not give up the power, people will always fear you. You would be an outcast."
"As I am now."
&n
bsp; Bane glanced around at her, and his sorrow showed briefly before he hid it. Her heart ached for him, torn by his solitude, outcast from humanity by the terrible power he wielded, yet afraid to set it aside.
Mirra rose and went to gaze up into his eyes, her heart filled with love for this lonely man. How would he react when he was told that he was a god, and who would tell him? How was it possible for a mortal to love a god in the way she did, not as a worshipper, but in that special, unique way in which a woman loved a man, and what future did it hold? She touched his cheek, his skin like silk beneath her fingers. This time he did not shun her touch, but regarded her with a mixture of confusion and something she longed to think was tenderness.
"I will never leave you. No matter what."
A slight, warm smile curled his lips. "You are like a moth drawn to a flame. I do not know why you have any wish to be with me, after all I have done to you."
"It does not matter -"
He placed his fingers on her lips. "Do not try to share my fate." Stepping around her, he went to sit on the bed. "I must rest."
"Yes, of course." She picked up his empty supper bowl and headed for the door, where she glanced back. He was already stretched out on the bed, his eyes closed.
As she made her way to the kitchens, Mirra marvelled at the change that had come over him as the dark power dwindled. Every day, he became more relaxed and approachable, his manner friendlier. His violent mood swings and savage temper had given way to bitter introspection and deep melancholy tempered by unexpected moments of kindness.
On occasion, she had glimpsed a warmth in his eyes when they rested upon her, and nursed a slight hope that he might return a little of the feelings she bore for him, although it seemed a forlorn wish. Was it possible for a god, even a mortal one, to love an ordinary mortal? Was her love for him a betrayal of her goddess? He was, after all, a dark god, but he was also a mortal, as human as she was, and therein lay her hope.
The next day, the last glimmer of blue light faded from Bane's skin, and Ellese smiled. The humming healers fell silent as she turned to open a wooden chest, taking out a silk-wrapped sphere. She peeled the silk aside, and he glimpsed the golden pearl that soaked into her palm.
Bane scowled when she approached him, uncomfortable in the chains, although he was fairly sure he could break them if he tried hard enough. The healers did not realise the kind of strength he possessed, even without the dark magic, and he was content to let them remain ignorant. He did not trust them, and he had no intention of enduring any further humiliation at their hands. Now that the purge was over, there remained only the healing, and he would not allow them to do anything else. He had undergone too many painful and apparently pointless rituals in the Underworld to go through any more now. Ellese tried to stroke his cheek, but he turned his head aside. Her expression became sedate.
"At last, I can restore you to health."
"I feel well enough."
"You will feel better." Ellese studied his face, which he was certain was etched with lines of exhaustion, for the purge had left him weak and tired.
First, she knelt and cradled his crushed foot, which was still mottled with faint green and yellow bruises. He sensed her power working within his flesh, a tingling sensation, cool and soothing. The bruises vanished as the bones knitted, and, when she released it, his foot was healed. The pain that had plagued him since the standing stone had fallen on his foot at Torlock Keep faded away with the bruises, to his relief. It had been hard to walk without a limp since then, and only his ability to withstand pain had allowed him to hide the injury.
Elder Mother stood, meeting Bane's hostile eyes. His expression told her that he hated to be tampered with, even for a good cause. Laying her hands on his chest, she healed his heart, closing the small hole that had weakened it for so long - a defect that the dark power had worsened. Her healing light flowed into his blood, undoing the genetic flaw that made him a bleeder.
Ellese climbed the steps beside the altar and laid her hands upon his hair. She healed the scars in his brain that the Black Lord had inflicted - the weakened blood vessels that should have ruptured and killed him when he broke the seventh ward. When she released him, he jerked up his head, frowning at her. She knew that the healing of his brain had caused some strange sensations, a few of them unpleasant. He flexed his arms, making the shackles creak and reminding her of what he was. Ellese gestured to the healers as she descended the steps, and two hurried over to unshackle him. He straightened, rubbing his wrists.
"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 celebrated 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.
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