He was digging in his pack, and a pang of dismay went through her when he pulled out his Underworld clothes.
"No, do not use the dark power again, please."
"I will not let them kill my father. I am no warrior, like Grem, yet he failed, and I do not want everyone to know who I am, but I have to save him."
Mirra's heart sank at the prospect of his being forced to perform another Gather. If he did, they would have to return to the Lady's Temple so he could be purged again. Despondently she watched him don the black clothes and sweeping cloak. By the time he was dressed, warm sunlight streamed in through the window.
Bane went over to it, and Mirra joined him to gaze out at a grassy common where a tree with a convenient branch stood, a fresh rope hanging from it. A crowd waited, the men in it puffing pipes and muttering. Most were bearded mountain men, woodsmen and trappers, each distinctive in their garb. The woodsmen wore pale leather attire, the trappers were clad in fur, while the mountain men, prospectors and miners dressed in rough homespun clothes with wide-brimmed hats. Some townsfolk were in evidence, garbed in sombre clothes of a better cut and quality than their wild brethren.
A commotion at the far end of the common drew her attention. Four husky jailers dragged two men across the grass. People shouted insults, and some threw stones, evincing angry growls from the guards when a few ill-aimed missiles bounced off them. The stone throwing petered out, but the captives looked bedraggled and bruised. Grem walked with his head up, his eyes scanning the crowd, while the other man, taller than he, walked with a bowed head and dragging feet.
Bane swung away and strode to the door, his face grim. Mirra followed, fearful of the outcome of this confrontation, the first between Bane and humanity since he had stopped slaughtering them. He swept through the empty alehouse and out into the street, his strides lengthening. Reaching the common, he stopped behind the crowd, which gawked at the tall man being led to the noose. Soon someone sensed Bane's presence and turned, nudging his neighbour. Within minutes, every head was turned towards Bane, and a tense silence fell. In his distinctive garb of fine sable cloth embroidered with gold flame-like patterns, and the heavy cloak lined with crimson satin, he exuded an air of evil power.
"Release those men."
Bane's command carried clearly across the common to the men who held Grem and the man who must be Mithran. A muted muttering rose from the crowd, and a huge, red-bearded trapper left Grem's side and pushed his way through the throng to confront Bane. He was clad in soft furs, his hands scarred from the traps, a skinning knife in his belt. He stopped several feet away, his expression wary and his chin thrust out. Bane's glacial eyes raked him. The trapper folded bulging arms and scowled blackly under thick brows.
"So you've come to fetch yer own, have ye?"
Bane's smile was cold enough to freeze fire. "You could say that."
"I knew he was in with demons. Now you've just proved me right, haven't ye? But yer ain't got any magic now, do ye?" The man spat on the ground. "The way I heard it, them healers made sure yer as harmless as a snake with no fangs."
Mirra bit her lip, wondering how Bane would counter this situation, which was rapidly turning ugly. Some members of the crowd edged away, while others sniggered, borrowing bravado from the swaggering trapper.
Bane tilted his head. "Are you certain of that?"
The trapper smiled, glancing around at the villagers to ensure that they hung on his words. "Aye, that's what I heard, and I doubt they'd let a murdering bastard like yer wander around if yer was still dangerous."
"You heard wrong. I can take the power up again anytime I wish."
The crowd's retreat picked up momentum as it sought a safe distance, but a fair number of muscular woodsmen stayed, including those who held the prisoners. The red-haired man gave a disbelieving guffaw.
"That's impossible. The wards are back. None of yer stinking evil can be in the Overworld."
Bane shook his head. "Wrong again."
Grem shouted, "You'd better listen to him! I was there when he fought the Black Lord. I saw it! He can turn you all to ash!"
The crowd muttered, and the trapper glowered at the townsfolk, shooting a venomous glance at Grem. "He's lying! The bastard's harmless!"
"Would you like to test that theory?" Bane asked.
The redhead looked uncertain, his eyes growing shifty under his bushy brows. For all his bravado, Bane's icy confidence was unnerving, and the man's moral support melted away with the crowd.
"Yer bluffing!"
"Am I?" Bane radiated contempt, and retained an air of menace and arrogance that probably stemmed from being a god, Mirra thought. Even though he was virtually powerless, he still seemed dangerous. The big man sweated, but stood his ground, defiant now, and unwilling to back down in front of the entire village.
"Prove it," he said.
Bane reached the trapper before he had time to react, gripped his arms and hurled him five feet backwards, where he sprawled with a grunt. The man scrambled to his feet and backed away, but his brawny friends closed in, hefting their axes. Bane swept them with icy eyes.
"I do not have to prove anything to you, but if you make me, you will not live to tell the tale."
The men hesitated, glancing at the redhead with doubtful expressions. The trapper, however, was enraged now and reckless, his ego as bruised as his backside and probably smarting more.
"Yer lying! Yer would 'ave fried us all by now if yer could."
"I am trying to reform my ways. Men like you make it difficult for me to not hurt people. You want proof?"
Mirra winced as Bane ripped open his shirt, knowing how much he hated to display the marks of his torture. The rune scars were red against his pale skin, as if they had been recently cut. Mirra had discovered that even after the purging, the runes resisted all attempts to heal them. The trapper stepped back, his eyes wide. Bane traced the seventh rune, igniting it to a dull red glow. The big man's complexion paled until his freckles stood out like dirt on his skin, and his eyes became white-ringed. The men who held the prisoners untied them and shoved them forward.
The trapper yelled, "I believe yer! There's no need for killing. Take them!"
Bane had started to trace another rune, and stopped, regarding the man with a chilling glare. "I have chosen to put aside the dark power, but if you harm any friend of mine, you will answer to me. Rather be my friend than my enemy, it is healthier."
The trapper backed away, and his axe-wielding cronies retreated with as much aplomb as they could. Most of the crowd had fled, and the few hardy souls who remained pressed back against the buildings around the common. Grem gripped Mithran's arm and dragged him forward, but Mithran regarded Bane with a deep hatred, digging in his heels.
"I'll not go with you!" he snarled. "I want no help from the likes of you!"
Bane's face looked like it was carved from granite, and he jerked his head at Grem, who took a firmer grip on the big man.
"You have no choice," Bane said. "You will come."
Seeing that father and son were getting off to a bad start, Mirra darted forward and laid a hand on Mithran's arm. "Please come with us. We mean you no harm."
He stared at her in surprise. "What are you doing with him, healer?"
"All will be explained, just come with us."
Mithran glared at Bane, and their resemblance struck her. Grey touched Mithran's dark brown hair, but his features possessed the same strong, chiselled bone structure. Level brows shadowed dark grey eyes, and his nose was not quite as straight and narrow as Bane's.
He shook his head. "I'll not go anywhere with that bastard."
"Would you rather stay here and hang?" Bane demanded.
Mirra said, "He just saved your life. He is not going to harm you."
Mithran shook his head again, showing himself to be as stubborn as his son. "I'd rather hang than be tormented by that damned monster."
"He is not a monster." Mirra feared Bane would give up and leave rather
than contend with Mithran's hostility. "I will not allow anything to happen to you. Will you trust me?"
Mithran tore his glare from Bane to shoot her a confused glance. "I trust you, healer, but what will people think?"
"They were about to hang you. The Demon Lord will protect you, I promise."
Mithran eyed his son. "What does he want with me?"
"We will explain, but not here."
Mithran looked around at the men who still lurked at the edge of the common and nodded. Grem released him, and he fell in beside her as Bane swung away and marched to the alehouse. In the yard, Grem saddled the horses and gave Mirra's to Mithran. She ran inside to retrieve their packs, then mounted in front of Bane.
He turned to his father. "Take us to your cabin."
Mithran spurred his horse and cantered out of town, past gawking people and the still-cowed trappers. He led the way up a narrow, winding trail that snaked through forests of dragon pines and arrow-woods, ascending into thickly wooded hills.
By the time they arrived at a log cabin tucked away in a glade with stream chuckling past it, the horses were lathered and blown. The cabin was built from striped dragon pine logs whose red-gold bark had been stripped off, the flaxen wood weathered to grey. A stand of ghost trees provided a backdrop of silver trunks and grey-green leaves, and a clump of arrow-woods towered over the shed and woodpile next to the cabin. Grem led the horses away to unsaddle them, and Mirra hesitated in front of the house, uncertain of whether she should go in with the men.
Mithran muttered, "I'll not be alone with him, healer."
At her nod he opened the door, and they followed him into the cold, damp cabin. He turned at the stone fireplace and leant against it, his glare fixed on Bane. Mirra's heart ached for Bane as he turned away and unclipped his cloak, folding it across the back of a chair. His shirt still hung open. He seemed to have forgotten about it. The tension rose, and Mirra glanced from one to the other.
Bane said, "Perhaps this was a mistake."
Mirra went to him and touched his arm. "You must tell him."
"Tell me what?" Mithran demanded.
Bane shook his head. "This is not how I planned it. It is all wrong."
"I know, but still, you must," she urged.
Mithran growled, "Tell me what, you pasty-faced bastard?"
Bane swung around and closed the gap between them in a stride.
Mithran recoiled with a yelp of alarm. "Healer!"
Mirra smiled. "You are the last person in the world he would harm, Mithran. You have nothing to fear."
Mithran locked eyes with Bane, who was a fraction taller.
Bane spoke in a low, husky voice. "I am not a bastard, though many have doubtless called me that. Do I remind you of someone?"
Mithran's eyes narrowed, and he paled. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
Bane stood almost toe-to-toe with his father. "You had a wife, twenty years ago. Do you remember her?"
Mithran's hands curled into fists. "Of course I remember her, you damned Underworld monster."
"What happened to her?"
"She disappeared."
"That is all you know? Did you try to find her?"
Mithran looked furious and stricken. "Of course I tried to find her. I searched for five years. Five long years, damn you!"
"Do you want me to tell you what happened to her?"
Mithran sagged against the fireplace. "You know?"
"Yes." Bane turned away, walked a few paces, and swung back, frowning. "She was taken to the Underworld."
Mithran's face twisted with horror, then fury replaced it. He leapt at his son and grabbed the front of Bane's shirt, shoving him backwards into the table, which splintered as he fell, collapsing under him. His father landed on his knees, straddling him, and drew back his fist. Bane made no attempt to protect himself, his eyes locked with Mithran's.
"You took her, you bastard! You took my wife, my unborn child!"
Mithran's voice cracked with anguish, and he punched Bane in the face. Blood oozed from his nose, and Mirra cried, "No! Stop it!"
Mithran glanced at her, his fist cocked. Bane lay on the smashed wood, his father's other hand clenched in his shirt. Blood trickled down his cheek. Mithran stared at him, apparently realising that he had attacked the Demon Lord, the most feared man in the world, and he had not retaliated.
"Did you come here to torment me, like that damned demon?"
"What did the demon say?"
"It said I was in for a nasty surprise," Mithran replied.
"That is all?"
"Yes! What happened to her? What did you do to her, you bastard?"
Mirra cringed, knowing what Bane would say, and knowing, as he did, the consequences of saying it. In some strange way, Bane needed this confrontation, perhaps to ease his guilt over his mother's death, for which he felt responsible. To him, the beating his father was administering seemed a fitting punishment for killing his mother, and his father was the only one who could do it. His words dropped like leaden bricks into the silence.
"She is dead."
Mithran gave a howl of rage and anguish and punched Bane in the face again. Blood ran from a split lip, and Mithran hit him again, splitting an eyebrow. Mithran sobbed with rage and grief, while Bane was coldly subdued. His hands clenched, but remained at his sides.
"You killed her!" Mithran shouted, gripping Bane's collar and shaking him. "Why did you kill her? What did she do? Why, damn you!" His face reddened, and blood vessels swelled on his forehead and neck from the exertion of shaking Bane. "Why don't you fight back, you whoreson? Fight! You killed my wife, my child! I'll kill you!"
Mirra sobbed, sharing Bane's physical and emotional pain. His father knelt over him, raining blows on his bloody face once more, shouting, "Damn you! Damn you!"
Still Bane made no move to protect himself, and Mithran staggered to his feet and slumped against the wall, burying his face in his arms. His hands left smears of his son's blood on the logs. Bane raised himself onto his elbows and looked up at his father.
"I deserved that." His words were slurred, and blood dripped from his chin. "What was her name?"
Mithran rubbed his face on his sleeve and turned. His grey eyes blazed, and deep lines of grief and pain were carved into his face. "You'll never sully it."
Bane sat up and leant forward, his elbows on his knees, head bowed. Wings of hair hid his battered face, and his voice was soft, as full of sorrow as his father's. "I want to know the name of the woman I killed."
"Why?" Mithran stared at him in horror and confusion. "Why would you care what her name was, since you did not ask it of her before she died?"
Bane looked up, flicking back his hair, and Mirra swallowed a sob at the sorrow in his eyes. Her eyes stung, and she bit her lip, longing to intervene. Mithran stared at Bane, his expression a mixture of loathing and amazement. Bane met his father's gaze, then looked away, his mouth twisted. "Because she was my mother."
All colour drained from Mithran's face, and his legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, his eyes fixed on Bane. "No!"
Bane spoke with tired gravity. "I was born in the Underworld. She died shortly after. The Black Lord wanted an unborn boy child, and he killed her to get me."
"No!" Mithran's face twisted. "You're the Demon Lord!"
"Yes. That is what he made me into. That is what he wanted me for. You know what I have done."
"No! It can't be true!"
Bane bowed his head once more. "It is."
"No, damn you! It's lies! You were sent to torment me, like the demon!"
Mirra said, "It is true, Mithran. My Elder Mother is a seeress. She saw your wife taken, and she watched your son raised in the Underworld. He is your son, and he is not a monster. Your wife was fortunate to die. She flew to the Lady, while your son was tormented in the Underworld for eighteen years. He has turned to the light now, renounced the dark power, received the Lady's blessing, and been redeemed."
/> Mithran raised a haggard face to stare at her. "But in the village, he said..."
"That he can take up the power again, if he needs to, but he does not wish to, nor did he. He came here to meet his father, and found you on the gallows. How else could he save you, when the man he sent to free you had failed? It was not a bluff. He would have done it for you."
"But he can't be my son. He's the Demon Lord. He's a god." He glanced at Bane. "Unless the tales are untrue?"
"No. That is true. The Dark Lord raised him up, making him a mortal god."
Mithran shook his head, looking dazed, then raised his eyes to hers again. "My son was raised in the Underworld by the Black Lord, and he's a god. That's what you're telling me."
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea how hard that is to believe?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"All these years, the healers knew. Why didn't they tell me?"
"What good would it have done? Only tormented you further, to know your son was alive in the Underworld. We could do nothing for him until he rose, then we saved him."
Mithran lowered his gaze to Bane's bowed head, myriad expressions flitting across his face. Amazement, horror, pity and disbelief warred with wonder, awe and a strange longing.
Bane did not see them. His eyes were averted as he rose to his feet, his expression cold and set. He had received the rejection he had expected, and now it was all too painful for him.
"I am sorry I have caused you grief, but I wanted to meet you, to let you know I exist. I will leave you in peace now. But if you need my help, you may call upon me. I will come."
Bane strode towards the door, ignoring Mirra's pleading eyes and the hand she stretched out to detain him. As he reached the door, Mithran jerked from his introspection.
"Wait."
Bane stopped and turned to face his father. The blood that dripped from his chin ran across the rune scars his ripped shirt exposed. Mithran climbed to his feet and approached his son, scanning Bane's face. Picking up a clean cloth, he dunked it in a basin of water. He hesitated, his eyes on the runes, then he wiped off the blood that obscured Bane's features, the fresh streaks that ran from the wounds frustrating him. His eyes roamed over his son's face.
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