Demon Lord (34 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Sacrifice

Bane woke slowly from a more
peaceful sleep than he had enjoyed for months. His father had not
visited him, so perhaps tonight he would brave the Black Lord's
wrath and call him again. He needed answers. For a while he lay
still, revelling in the lack of pain. Even his foot did not throb
as much as usual. He yawned and stretched, wincing at the stab of
pain from the healing wounds in his chest and flank as the surge of
his muscles tugged at them. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and
looked down at the girl, surprised to find her gone. She must have
risen early and gone for a walk. His enhanced senses informed him
that she was not in the camp, and he frowned, expanding his
awareness.

A pang of anxiety went through
him when he still could not sense her, and he stood up, pulling on
his shirt, boots and cloak. The stupid girl had fled. Cold pain
stabbed his chest as he stepped out of the tent into the watery
dawn light. He hated the feelings that burgeoned within him,
cursing his inability to let her go. The demons, or Orran's people
would kill her, freeing him, yet the thought brought a fresh stab
of pain and a deep sense of loss. Her spell still held him
powerfully. He could not resign himself to her loss; he had to get
her back. Rage washed through him, and he told himself he only
wanted her back to thwart his father. He would not let him win.

The demon steed came at his
command, and he mounted. Turning its fiery head towards Orran's
temple, he urged it to its best speed. She would retrace her steps
right into their midst, of that he had no doubt, and he knew
exactly what would happen to her when they caught her. The demon
steed flew over the earth at a speed no mortal horse could hope to
match, its hooves barely touching the ground, its tail streaming
out in a plume of fire, scorched hoof prints smoking in its
wake.

Mirra shifted in the cramped
cage, the bamboo slats digging into her. Orran's people had
ambushed her only a few hours after she had left Bane's camp,
leaping from the undergrowth with screams of glee, causing the
warhorse to shy. She had slid off into the crowd of warriors, who
had laughed and toyed cruelly with her, pushing her from one to
another, slapping and pinching her, dragging her upright by her
hair. Their rough hands had groped her in a way that had sickened
her. Bane, when he had beaten her, had not added insult to injury
in that manner.

The stallion had returned to the
fray, biting and kicking the tattooed men, but they drove him away
with clubs and spears. Fearful that he might be injured, she had
told him to flee, knowing he could do little against so many. When
the warriors tired of their cruel sport, they had bound her and
forced her to walk back to their village in the gloomy forest.

There they had pushed her into
the cramped cage and gone to celebrate, leaving her to spend the
rest of the night curled up in its confines, trapped like the
innocent forest creatures whose fate she now shared. Her plan
seemed foolish now, for it had only hastened her death. At least
Bane was free of her, and whatever spell the healers had cast.
Whether he succeeded or failed, she would not be the cause of his
demise. She prayed until the dawn's rosy streaks brightened the
eastern sky, then the drums started their monotonous beat, drowning
out her fervent whispers.

As the sun rose, people came to
stare at her, poke her with sticks and taunt her with cruel
insults. Mirra watched them with despairing eyes, pitying their
depravity, especially the children. The sharp sticks pierced her
skin, but there was neither pain nor blood. What little of her
power remained protected her, but the cutting out of her heart on
the sacrificial altar would certainly kill her. Her lack of pain
spoilt the people's enjoyment, and many resorted to spitting at
her. She bore it stoically, using the hem of her robe to wipe it
away.

The sun had barely risen above
the trees when the warriors came for her. They dragged her out and
pushed her towards the temple on numb legs. A hissing, chanting
crowd watched her pass, undoubtedly imagining the favours they
hoped to gain from her death. The warriors sent her stumbling
forward with rough pushes, and she narrowly avoided colliding with
a young boy who darted out of the crowd to kick her shins. Many of
those who lined the road were armed with thin switches with which
they lashed her.

The temple loomed ahead, more
frightening now that it was to be the place of her death. The
gargoyles leered at her, mocking her helplessness, and the crowd's
chanting, set to the drumming, rose in a frenzy of anticipation.
Terror robbed her of the serenity her prayers had imparted, and she
fell to her knees in the dust. The crowd laughed, jeering as the
guards dragged her to her feet and half-carried her up the steps
into the temple.

At the altar a priest stepped up
to her, his eager, beady eyes roving over her in a way that made
her skin crawl. The stained stone altar oozed the sickening pain of
its many victims, and the priest shouted arcane words that she did
not understand, making the crowd roar in response. Her heart
hammered, and she tried to calm herself, thinking of the Lady
waiting to welcome her to an eternity of happiness in the light
realm.

The chanting went on and on. The
drums pounded in her ears and dancers cavorted about the temple,
extorting the crowd to new heights of ecstatic worship. The thick,
cloying smell of sweat and incense stung her nose, and the altar
torches' oily smoke made her eyes water. The scene became
mercifully blurred as the narcotic smoke dulled her senses, but
when two priests lifted her onto the altar, terror spasmed her gut
and bile stung her throat. They bound her arms to rings set in the
stone, and she stared at the temple roof.

Her thoughts turned to Bane,
wishing she had seen him laugh just once from joy, instead of
bitterness and malice. What would he look like, without the
perpetual sneer that twisted his mouth, or the lines of rage and
suffering that marred the smooth skin of his brow? A sob racked
her, and she fought to quell the hysteria that bubbled in her
breast, choking back the scream that longed to burst from her lips.
Around her the chanting, drumming and dancing mingled into a dull
roar that beat at her like storm waves upon a beach. Her chest was
cold, her throat dry and burning, and the chill stone jabbed into
her back.

The priest stopped raving, and
the drums and chanting ceased at the same moment, plunging the
temple into a deathly silence. To Mirra it was as if the world had
ceased to exist, leaving a void filled with evil smells and lurid,
flickering shadows. The priest stepped up to the altar, looming
over her, a knife in his hands. A ripple of excitement went through
the crowd as it anticipated the blow, and she closed her eyes. Her
head filled with a roaring blackness, into which a small,
frightened voice cried in fear, calling upon the Lady for mercy and
redemption. For a long moment nothing happened, then there came the
rustle of the priest's robes as he raised the knife. A wave of cold
power made her stomach heave, and she opened her eyes in
surprise.

Bane stood over her, the knife
poised above her heart, glinting in the dull light. For a moment
she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her as she scanned his
furious features, then he brought the knife down in a flashing
stroke. Mirra cried out, bracing herself for the shock of the blow,
but instead the blade shattered on the stone with a crack, a hair's
breadth from her ribs.

The Demon Lord leant over her,
his eyes brilliant with rage. "You deserve to die, you infernal
imbecile, but I cannot let you. Did I not tell you that? Did you
think you could escape me? I am the Demon Lord! I will decide your
fate, not you!" Drawing his dagger, he slashed the ropes that bound
her wrists and jerked her upright, almost nose-to-nose with him.
"Did you think to flee back to your precious little abbey and hide
there?"

"Yes." Mirra gasped, still
stunned by his sudden, impossible presence. The roaring in her ears
faded somewhat, and her eyes clung to his pale features, all else a
meaningless blur. His eyes sliced into hers like shafts of ice,
tearing away the warm pleasure of his rescue and bringing the rest
of reality into focus again. Orran's people were all abased on the
floor, foreheads pressed to it in the presence of the Demon Lord.
Hot tears of shock and relief spurted into her eyes.

His voice was a low, furious
hiss. "Nowhere in this world is safe from me. Nowhere!"

"I wanted to hide from the
demons, not you." The words rushed out in gabble, and a sob closed
her throat. "I do not want you to die protecting me." She reached
out to him, begging for understanding, for a gentling of his
expression to tell her that he appreciated her concern, and was
moved by her selflessness.

Bane slapped her, sending her
rolling off the altar. He strode around it and straddled her,
leaning down to shout, "Fool! Imbecile! You cause me nothing but
trouble! You would never have reached an abbey. The only reason you
are still alive is because these people captured you before my
father sent a demon. When they took you, he did not need to,
knowing they would do the job."

Although the blow had not hurt,
she raised a hand to her cheek, blinking up at him. "I am
sorry."

"Damn you!" Bane swung away to
kick a cowering priest and send the unfortunate man rolling. Mirra
had never seen him so furious. He was frightening, demonic, yet he
kept the dark power leashed. He swung back to her, and she cringed,
intimidated by the rage on his face. Gripping her arm, he yanked
her to her feet and dragged her from the temple, kicking at men who
did not move quickly enough from his path. None of the crowd dared
to raise their heads as he threw her with bruising force onto the
demon steed, mounting behind her. The stallion's foul power made
her retch, and Bane snapped a curt command. The power vanished, and
the stallion's fire dimmed.

The demon steed's speed as it
raced back to the camp amazed Mirra. The earth blurred beneath its
flying hooves and its flaming mane licked harmlessly at her. She
sat forward, avoiding contact with Bane, who sat rigidly, radiating
rage and resentment. His fury dampened her elation at his timely
rescue, yet her heart warmed to him, disregarding his past
cruelties and present brutality. He had saved her. The Demon Lord
had ridden back to rescue her. Even though she believed him when he
said he merely rose to his father's challenge, and would one day
kill her himself, she was still honoured to be rescued by so
powerful a man.

Arriving at the camp, he pushed
her off and dismounted to drag her into his tent. He flung her down
and sat on the bed, his anger fading somewhat. Picking up a pot, he
opened it and smeared the green paste on his hand, which bled where
the sacrificial knife had cut him when he had smashed it. A heavy
silence fell as Mirra stared at his boots, and he sat morosely on
the bed. Finally his soft voice broke it.

"You should long for my death.
You cast the spell to cause it, now you try to prevent it?"

Mirra licked dry lips and raised
her eyes, relieved that the terrible fury seemed to have left him.
"I cast no spell. If there is one, the healers must have done it,
and I am just their tool. But I do not want your death."

His brows rose. "I am destroying
your world, breaking the wards to free my father. How can you want
me to live?"

"Killing cannot be justified. To
kill you is just as evil as your killing other people. If healers
start to kill, even to save the world, then we are all doomed.
Armies may fight you, soldiers may try to kill you, but the Lady
forbids healers to cause death."

Bane raked back his hair, making
it sweep from his temples in blue-black feathers. His mood,
typically, had now gentled entirely, as if the spurt of rage had
temporarily cleansed him of the bitterness and dull anger that
always hung about him like a dark cloud.

His voice held only mild
curiosity as he asked, "What would happen to one who did?"

She shrugged, lowering her gaze
to his boots once more. "Some say she would suffer the death
herself, not her victim, and the Lady would reject her. Some say
she would lose her powers. Certainly she would be cast from the
abbey."

"If this is true, how can the
healers plot to kill me?"

"They do not. They cannot. It is
impossible. Yet even if they do not, the result would be the same,
and I do not want to be responsible for your death."

"Because of what would happen to
you?"

She glanced up, startled by this
suggestion, so far from the truth. "No, even if nothing happened to
me. Even if they gave me a medal and the Lady herself congratulated
me for doing it, I have no wish to kill you."

"Even though I shall kill
you."

"Even so,” she agreed.

"Even though, by killing me, you
could save all the people in this world?"

Mirra hesitated. "I would die to
save them, but I will not kill for it."

Bane shook his head. "I cannot
believe you. Your pious prating smacks of lies, and my father said
you were sent to deceive me. You have tried hard. Many would have
been misled by now, but I have faith in my father. I trust him, not
you."

"Then you do not believe that
the power will kill you, or that the food you eat, the wine you
drink is poisoned?"

"Poisoned!" He gave a harsh bark
of laughter, his mildness washed away by a resurgence of his old
bitterness. "You are the poison, and the poisoner. But you will
fail. You bide your time, thinking to gain my trust, but you will
not."

Mirra gazed up at him, her eyes
dark with sorrow. "If that is so, I am running out of time. You
have only two wards to break."