Demon Lord (40 page)

Mirra scrambled to her feet and
backed away, shaking her head. Dorel smirked, her eyes alight with
glee, clearly savouring the moment. A flash of bright crimson
caught Mirra's eye, and she glanced around as the demon steed
thrust through the foliage, prancing between her and the droge.
Dorel cursed foully, glaring at the demon steed, who glowered back,
snorting fire. Mirra stared at the demon steed in confusion, then
realisation dawned with a gush of relief. The beast still had
orders to protect her. It had no choice but to obey Bane.

Dorel muttered in angry
frustration, glowering at Mirra before she stormed away. The demon
steed turned baleful eyes on Mirra too, then swung away and
vanished into the forest. Her shaking legs buckled, and she sank
down on the leafy floor, holding her aching ribs. The scratches
that branches had inflicted on her face stung, and not even enough
of her healing power remained to stop the pain.

For a while she hugged herself
and wept, raging at her inability to help Bane. So much hatred
surrounded her, from Dorel, the demon steed, the loathsome dark
creatures that crept through the night, and even Bane, especially
Bane. His hatred hurt more, for she cared about him, and did not
deserve his animosity. If only he would accept her as his friend
and let her help him, it would give her existence meaning. Just as
he had been starting to listen to her, even treating her with a
modicum of kindness, the droge had come between them. How could she
persuade him to give up his evil quest if she could no longer talk
to him? At night she missed his soft breathing and the sounds of
his restless tossing, and her rest had not been peaceful the
previous night, when she had slept alone beside the fire.

When at last her tears subsided,
she made her way to Mord's campfire and curled up next to it, her
fatigue numbing the pain of her bruises. Her worries kept her awake
for a while, fearing demons now that Bane was unconscious. Her eyes
kept flicking open to scan the darkness for the malformed shape of
an earth demon's gritty form or the sickly hues of a fire demon's
flames, until she spotted a dull crimson glow amongst the trees and
realised that the demon steed stood guard over her. Reassured, she
drifted off to sleep.

The trolls' deep voices woke
Mirra as they re-lighted the fire to prepare breakfast. The dull,
cold light of another grim grey dawn filled the wood, silvering
pale bark and bright green leaves sheened with sparkling dew. Her
clammy robe stuck to her and she ached all over, one eye swollen
and probably blue. She clutched the damp blanket that someone had
thrown over her, shivering. A troll gave her a bowl of hot
porridge, which she ate with hungry relish, not caring that it was
watery and tasteless. Her eyes strayed often to the ominously
silent tent, but she stayed away. Miraculously, she still had the
wine skin of potion, which she tied to her belt.

The morning passed slowly, the
fall's thunder underscoring the mountain forest's peace. She joined
the trolls in a game of knucklebones, her concern for Bane
distracting her. If only she could do something. The droge was
immensely strong, however. It would take a number of trolls to keep
her at bay. She toyed with the idea of asking them to help, but if
Dorel stayed close to Bane they would not approach, and they
certainly would not enter the tent. Apart from Mord, who seemed to
care about him, these troops probably did not believe that Bane
could die, since he was the Black Lord's son.

Late in the morning, Mirra
looked up at the sound of voices from the tent. Her heart pounded
as she gazed at it, wishing she could go there. Dorel's voice rose
in angry protest, and Bane's deep tones cut through it. The tent
flap opened and the Demon Lord appeared. He tottered stiffly, and
her heart ached at the sight of his red eyes and deathly pallor. He
tried to shake off Dorel's tugging hands as she attempted to drag
him back into the tent, but failed, barely able to hold his own
against her.

"Girl!"

His shout cracked across the
camp, making Mirra start in surprise. She stood up, and he raised a
hand to beckon her over. Mirra ran up to him, stopping a few paces
away, frightened by the fury in Dorel's eyes. The droge started
towards her, but Bane grabbed her arm, halting her.

"Leave her alone."

Dorel turned to glare at him.
"She wants to poison you."

"She will not." Bane studied
Mirra's bruised face, then crooked a finger at her. "Come
here."

Mirra sidled closer, watching
Dorel. Bane kept his hold on the droge, keeping her in check, even
though he swayed with weakness and his brow was dewed with sweat.
"Make your potion," he said, his eyes filled with unimaginable
suffering.

Mirra untied the wine skin from
her belt. "I tried to give you some last night, but Dorel would not
let me."

"Poison!" Dorel shouted.

Bane sighed, wincing as shafts
of agony shot through his head. "Drink some."

Still he did not trust her.
Mirra raised the skin and drank, then held it out. Bane took it,
and Dorel tried to knock it from his hand, but he held it out of
her reach. The three waited, Dorel panting with rage, Bane swaying
with weakness and pain, and Mirra watching them nervously, until at
last the Demon Lord was satisfied that Mirra had not drunk poison.
Then he drank the wine skin's contents, defeating Dorel's efforts
to snatch it away. When he had drained it, she turned on Mirra,
trying to reach her with claw-like hands tipped with sharp nails.
Bane staggered a little, but held her back.

"She's poisoned you!" Dorel
yelled. "She probably took the antidote already."

"Be quiet," Bane growled.

"She's a witch. It won't kill
her!"

"She has no power."

Dorel hissed with fury, but this
statement seemed stump the droge, who shot Mirra a look of deep
loathing. Mirra's aches and pains vanished, and Bane's tense face
relaxed, the lines smoothing from his brow, his pallor lessening.
He raised his head and breathed deeply, letting it out in a long
sigh. With a rough push, he sent Dorel staggering away.

"Make me some food."

The droge glared daggers at
Mirra, but walked away, hips swinging. Bane stepped forward and
gripped Mirra's arm, pulling her into the tent. Releasing her, he
sat on the bed, waited until she was seated on the floor before
him, then studied her again.

"Dorel did that to you?"

She nodded. "I tried to give you
some potion, and she got angry."

Bane smiled bitterly. "My father
sent her to stop you giving me the potion. He believes that it is
what weaves the spell, but I know better. You will make a flask and
give it to me."

Mirra smiled, her heart buoyed
by his unexpected request. "Of course."

"Mord will drink some
first."

She shrugged, a little of her
joy evaporating. "As you wish."

He leant closer, his manner
intimidating. "Do not think that I trust you, because I do
not."

"It does not matter, as long as
I can help you."

"You make no sense, helping your
enemy."

"Healers help any who need
it."

He shook his head. "Stupidity.
But I will use that foolishness. You will aid your downfall."

"Bane, you are not -"

Dorel thrust open the tent flap
and entered, carrying a bowl of red stew. The food bubbled from the
fire, but the droge held it as if it was lukewarm. She glared at
Mirra.

"Get out, slut!"

Bane stood up, already stronger
now that the agony had gone, and frowned at her. "I give the orders
around here, droge. From now on you will leave the girl alone. If
you touch her again I will punish you. Now leave us."

Dorel held out the bowl with a
smile, and Mirra yelled, "No!"

Bane had already taken it, not
realising that the bowl was boiling hot. Unprepared, his power did
not shield him from the burn. With a grunt of pain, he dropped it.
The bowl smashed on the floor, and Dorel's spiteful smile
widened.

"Too hot to handle, Bane? Your
weak human body always lets you down, doesn't it?"

Bane frowned and stepped towards
her, his hand flashing out to grip her arm. "You damned lifeless
piece of walking corruption. You insult me? You dare? Who do you
think you are toying with, droge?"

She sneered, "You can't harm
me."

"Oh no? Think again, Dorel. I
can destroy you, crush you to dust and send you to oblivion."

"The Black Lord would tear you
apart."

He snorted. "You overestimate
your worth. My father might be a little annoyed, nothing more. I
have destroyed two demons already, and received a token berating at
best for it. I am as powerful as the Black Lord, and you would do
well to remember that."

Dorel shrank back, but her
expression was defiant and her eyes spat venom. Bane thrust her
away with a grunt of disgust. "Make more food, and if you ever try
to harm my person again, you will pay, understand?"

Dorel nodded and slipped
out.

Bane sank back down on the bed,
running a hand through his hair. "Unfortunately physical punishment
is useless on her. I would have to use power. Droges like her feel
no pain, they must be endowed with special bodies for that."

Mirra studied him, worried by
his haggard appearance. "Can you not banish her, like the
demons?"

"No. She cannot be summoned or
sent. My father asked her to come. She did not have to. The droges
are my father's concubines, chattel, but they are dead souls,
beyond the power of anyone save my father and I. I can only tell
her to leave. I can rescind her form, but that would take power.
She does not even have to obey me, and she does not fear me as the
demons do. She is one of my father's favourites, and that has made
her bold. Most do fear me."

He sighed. "I still have to
break that infernal ward, too. I must find the real one. The one in
the rainbow is an illusion; a clever trick."

"But you are too weak. You need
to rest. The dark magic is harming you. If you use it too much, it
could kill you."

"I have to release my father,
then he will free me of this weak body. The power will not kill me;
it only makes me sick. Go and prepare the potion now."

"Bane -"

"Do not defy me too. Go."

Mirra rose, longing to talk to
him further, but unwilling to incur his wrath. He seemed exhausted,
almost despondent, and her heart ached for him. Just then Dorel
entered with another bowl of food, and sneered at Mirra as she
passed her.

Mirra went in search of more
flowers, Bane's newfound willingness to accept her help lifting her
spirits, even though he did not trust her. If it was the only aid
she could give him, then she would do that, at least. Her search
took her to the edge of the chasm, where lush plants grew in the
cool spray, and there she found a clump of the herb.

As she plucked the flowers, her
eyes were constantly drawn to the wonder of the cascading, roaring
water and the lovely rainbow that hung in the mist. The ward glowed
brightly, its delicate blue lines forming a pentagram, an arcane
symbol that could summon and guard against evil. She filled her
skirt with blooms, watching the falls when she rested. The
plummeting water fascinated her, and her eyes followed it into the
mist-shrouded depths. A glint of blue caught her attention, and she
tried to discern what it was. Almost at the very bottom of the
falls, revealed only occasionally by the swirling mists, a second
pentagram glowed.

For a long time she considered
it, then gathered up her full skirts and headed back to the camp to
make the potion. The mage who had set this ward had indeed been
cunning, as had the one on the Isle of Lume. Knowing that creatures
of the Underworld hated water, he had set the ward where no one
could reach it without getting soaked. The illusion had been put
there to make Bane expend his power needlessly, speeding his doom
so if Mirra failed to turn him from his purpose he would die trying
to break the last ward.

Even now, he skirted close to
death. The evil power sickened him more each time he used it. Now
she could not heal him while he was filled with the darkness even
if she had the power to do so, for he was too weak and sick. When
he was drained of the magic he regained some of his health, but all
too soon he gathered more again. Her potion took away the pain, but
it did not heal him, and every day he grew sicker, a little closer
to death. How could she persuade him to stop when he refused to
believe her warnings and rejected the truth about himself? The
droge made it almost impossible to speak to him, and reinforced his
suspicions with her constant carping.

As she knelt by the fire,
stirring the boiling pot in which the blue flowers turned white,
Bane emerged from his tent, Dorel close behind. The droge carried a
pack, and Mirra knew that it contained the two pots and flagon of
potion he used when performing the dark ritual of the Gather. She
looked away, her heart aching. If only she could free him from the
dark web in which he was ensnared. The droge was not only here to
try to prevent him taking Mirra's potion, she was also meant to
keep Bane on the path the Black Lord had set for him.

They vanished into the forest,
Bane seeking privacy for his ritual. Mirra took the pot off the
fire and let the flowers steep, then strained them out through a
cloth and set the potion aside to cool before decanting it into a
wine skin. When her chore was done, Bane returned, and pity closed
her throat. He walked with jerky strides, his brow furrowed, his
eyes bloodshot and shadowed, his lips too red again. Mirra picked
up the skin and hurried over to him, calling Mord. When she reached
the Demon Lord he stopped, and Dorel hissed with rage. Mord hovered
a short distance away, forcing Mirra to walk back to him. Bane
watched her give him some of the medicine, waiting until it was
proven to be harmless.