Demon Lord (9 page)

As he cut on the third rune,
Mirra cried out, tears stinging her eyes. Her power thrummed,
seeking outlet, and her hands burnt, aglow with healing light. In
an effort to stop it, she gripped the arms of the chair. Bane
smiled, watching her as he cut another rune. Mirra screamed, and
light streamed from her fingers to sink into the chair. Bane put
down the dagger. There were seven rune scars on his chest, but he
seemed to feel that four were enough. Mirra noted, through the haze
of pain, that he had cut them in a specific order.

Bane picked up an empty cup and
scraped the blood into it. Mirra noticed that his blood was not
clotting. It continued to run from the wounds. Bane was a bleeder!
She sagged as the pain dulled, but her healer's instincts blazed
with the realisation that he could bleed to death from those small
cuts. Bane put down the cup and picked up a pot. He scooped up a
dollop of green jelly and smeared it on his chest. Mirra screamed
as fire coursed through her, and Bane gave a harsh bark of
laughter.

"Enjoy it, girl, this is the
best part," he grated through gritted teeth.

Bane rubbed the burning jelly
into the wounds while Mirra writhed and whimpered. At last the pain
eased again, and she gasped, sweat cooling her brow. Perspiration
also filmed Bane's skin. He leant over her, the cuts now blackened
and puckered, no longer bleeding, his chest smeared with blood and
green paste.

"Feels good, does it not?" he
sneered. "There is more to come."

Bane picked up the second pot
and scooped out a black liquid, which he rubbed onto his chest.
After a moment, an odd sensation flooded Mirra, as if she was
floating out of her chair. She gripped the arms, sickened by its
evil, and sensed that the horror she had just experienced was
nothing compared to what was still to come. She stared at him,
biting her lip in trepidation. Bane raised his arms, and the
shadows detached themselves from their nooks and corners and flew
across the room to sink into him.

Bile rose in her throat as the
room darkened, shadows rushing in from all over, gathered and
absorbed by him. The runes he had cut glowed sullen red, his eyes
turned black, and his hair rose and bristled with the surging
power. Bane staggered under the weight of the foul burden, then
stumbled to the door and vomited. Mirra echoed his reaction,
retching. Dark power filled the room, and Bane came back, looking
sick and drawn, to lift the flask. He poured a few drops into the
cup of his blood and drank it.

Again the power surged, and she
retched. The room had grown icy, and the floor seemed to give off
black light. The walls and ceiling warped in her vision, and her
mind cringed from the maddening illusions even as screams flayed
her throat. Bane stood at the centre of a dark storm, absorbing it.
Mirra wept for him, crying out with the pounding agony that lanced
through her. Darkness crawled over his skin like a disease. It
soaked into him, flowing through him with nauseating horror. The
power swirled about the room, drawn to Bane in streams of shadow.
He lowered his arms, frowning, and the shadows swirled around him,
no longer absorbed. His hands clenched, then opened, and cords
stood out on his neck with the effort of controlling the magic. He
relaxed, the strain fading from his expression, and his shoulders
slumped.

The room cleared, and normality
returned with the sunlight that streamed in through the windows as
the shadows melted away. Mirra sat slumped, weak and drained, her
cheeks wet with tears.

Bane flopped into a chair and
ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Trickles of
perspiration washed the foul potions from his chest. The runes were
stark against his skin, and his eyes burnt black in a haggard
visage. He stared at her, breathing as if he had just run a hard
race. Mirra looked down, receiving a surprise. The chair had
sprouted shoots whose tiny leaves unfurled in the sun. Her healing
power had restored the wood to life, so powerful had it been at the
height of Bane's suffering.

Bane noticed the chair, and his
voice was harsh. "You bring life, as I bring death. We are
opposites. But death has more power than life; always remember
that. It is nice to share my little ceremony, and interesting that
my power is won through pain, while yours is just there, flowing
out of you. I shall enjoy draining it from you and reducing you to
an empty shell, then see what is left."

Bane rose to his feet and
shouted for Mord. The troll appeared with a cup, which Bane drained
before throwing it down with a clatter and stalking into another
room, evidently to lie down and recuperate. Mirra watched Mord put
away the pots, then he released her, bound her arms and tied her
leash to a table leg.

For two days, Mord kept an eye
on her, but at first refused to untie her. The corpses swelled and
began to stink. At night, blood-chilling screams echoed through the
town as the dark creatures hunted. Mirra lay in the darkness and
prayed as feet shuffled past and bat wings rustled over the roof.
She wondered if the dark creatures hunted the conquered town's
hapless citizens, or Bane's men who wandered away from the safety
of the houses. Yet houses, she discovered, provided no
sanctuary.

One night, the shuffle of padded
feet and the soft click of claws woke her from an uneasy doze. She
froze, hardly daring to breathe, a scream clogged in her throat.
Against the dark backdrop, she made out the blacker form of a dark
creature as it slunk between the tables. Its red eyes gleamed
dully, betraying the swinging of its large head as it snuffled
across the floor. Terrified, Mirra watched the monster approach,
then it stopped.

Apparently it had encountered
the Demon Lord's scent, and it raised its head to sniff in her
direction. It blinked and retreated. She slumped with a sigh. How
ironic it was that while Bane slept in another room, his mere scent
was enough to protect her from the monsters that prowled in the
night.

During the day she dozed, the
mutter of passing men as they wandered through the town disturbing
her slumber. On the third day, she persuaded the troll to take her
out to sit in the sun, her legs shaking with hunger and
dehydration. She sank down in a patch of sunlight and raised her
face to the warm rays. Mord crouched in the shade, holding her rope
while she basked, a blessed relief after days shut up in the dim,
smelly inn. The sunlight gave her a little strength, but did
nothing to relieve the tight knot of her stomach or her mouth's
dryness.

Mord whimpered, and Mirra
glanced around in alarm. Bane stood in the doorway, his eyes blue
fire in the bright light. Lines of suffering marred his skin,
accentuating his haggard appearance. He strode towards Mord, who
dived into a nearby building to avoid the kick Bane aimed at him.
Swinging around, Bane approached Mirra and jerked her to her feet,
glaring down at her.

"So, you like the sun, do you?
That is where you get your power from, is it not? Well, say goodbye
to it, you will not bask in it again, witch." He dragged her back
into the inn and thrust her into a chair before pacing the room.
"Those idiots still have not found another ward, and I grow weary
of waiting. My father grows impatient." He pushed a bloated cadaver
aside and sat in its chair, glaring at Mirra. "I shall have to scry
for it."

His scowl deepened. The prospect
of the headache that would result clearly angered him. Resting his
arms on the table, he spread his hands.

Darkness filled his eyes, and he
radiated evil. She shivered as its sickening malevolence touched
her. Bane sat motionless, his eyes unfocussed, concentrating. After
a few minutes, he gestured, and an image formed in the air before
him. It appeared to be the inside of a dark cave, and a glowing
pentagram hung above lines chiselled into the stone floor. Bane
smiled, and the image faded. Sweat dewed his brow, and Mirra sensed
the pain building within his temples.

"So, we march. Stupid human
wizards, each with his own notion of how to seal the wards. This
one thought he could hide it in some remote cave. Fools."

Bane shouted for Mord, and the
troll appeared with a cup, receiving the kick he had avoided
earlier. Bane drained the drug and eyed the cowering troll.

"Tell the captains to gather
their men. We march again."

Chapter Four

Fire Demon

The following morning, Mirra
walked amongst the men while Bane rode ahead on the dragon. Grey
clouds obscured the sun, and a chill wind plucked at her robe,
making her shiver. They traversed pleasant rolling fields, then
joined a road that ran alongside a forest. Bane had allowed her to
be untied, and it was a relief to be able to move her arms again.
Benton walked beside her, clearly relieved to see her in one
piece.

"We heard about what he did to
you. I'm sorry he learnt your secret from us."

"It was no secret. Had he asked,
I would have told him myself. And even had he not asked, he would
have found out eventually."

Benton shook his head. "I wish
we could set you free, healer, but you wouldn't get far, and he'd
kill us for sure if we did. We're not all bad, some of us are quite
decent fellows, but we joined his army rather than die. There are
those who enjoy murdering and torture, but my friends and I
don't."

She smiled and patted his arm.
"I know. I would not ask you to risk yourself on my behalf."

Mirra stumbled beside him, her
breath rasping in a dry throat. Benton supported her with an arm
around her waist, but by midday, the last dregs of her strength ran
out, and she collapsed. Benton called to a friend, and between them
they lifted her, their faces grim. She knew almost nothing for the
rest of the day, a vague blur of grass passing beneath her and the
tramp of marching feet.

The men stopped and lowered her
to the ground, moving away as the cold presence of the Demon Lord
approached and halted beside her. She opened her eyes a slit to
look up at him. A satisfied smirk twisted his lips.

"Well, well. How do you feel
now, witch? A little dry, maybe?" He chuckled, gloating, then
crouched beside her, looking more angry than triumphant. "How
easily you die, witch. So soon. Too soon. I had hoped to enjoy
tormenting you a little longer." He raised his head, his nostrils
flaring, and she sensed a deep rage building in him. "My father
would be pleased..." He looked down at her, scowling. "Yet I am
not. No, I think not. For you, death would be a sweet release, and
that you will not have yet."

Bane gripped the front of her
tattered robe and jerked her upright. The world spun and a roaring
filled her ears, then a cold sensation engulfed her and everything
went black.

Mirra woke on the floor of
Bane's tent. Wetness chilled her face as water splashed onto her
cheek. She opened her eyes to find Bane seated on the bed,
dribbling a cup of water onto her. She licked her lips, and he
smirked.

"Thirsty, witch?"

She gazed up at him with deep
sadness tinged with despair.

This seemed to irk him, for he
frowned, and his smirk vanished. "Are you not going to beg for
water, girl? Do you not want some?"

She nodded.

"But you are not going to beg,
are you?"

She shook her head.

The Demon Lord stared at her,
his expression unreadable, his eyes like chips of blue ice. "Very
well. Sit up and take it. I have decided to let you live a little
longer. This is too easy for you. I want your death to be painful,
witch."

Mirra longed for the strength to
refuse, and take the easy way out. Yet she did not want to die, and
the proffered cup was so close, so tempting. Still, she was not
sure she had the strength to take it. Bane leant closer.

"So, you would like to refuse
and die now, would you not? Afraid of what the future holds?" He
dragged her upright, and the tent spun. Darkness nibbled at her
mind, then he shook her, and the world steadied. "You will drink,
or I will pour it down your throat. No one defies me,
understand?"

The tin cup rattled against her
teeth, and water sloshed into her mouth. After the first mouthful,
she sucked at the liquid, raising trembling hands to grasp the cup.
Never had she tasted anything so wonderful, wet and soothing. When
the cup was empty, she looked up at the man who held it. His mouth
twisted in a contemptuous sneer.

"I knew you would not have the
strength to resist. You humans are so weak. Do not think you would
have escaped me, though. I hold your life in my hands, witch. I
decide your fate, not you. When I have drained every last ounce of
pleasure from your torment, I shall devise a particularly horrible
death for you."

Mirra bowed her head as he
filled the cup again. This time she took it, forcing herself to
drink it slowly, for too much would make her sick. Bane dropped the
water skin beside her, as well as a loaf of stale bread.

"Eat, drink and be merry, witch,
for tomorrow we march again."

Bane stretched out on the bed
with a sigh, leaving her to sip water and nibble the dry bread. She
dozed, then woke thirsty again and drank more water. Misery and
sadness made her weep in the darkness until she drifted off to
sleep once more.

The next morning, she learnt
more of the Demon Lord's cruelties. On his orders, Mord presented
her with a feast for breakfast. Grilled fowl and roast boar filled
her plate, drenched with gravy. She stared at it, then looked away,
although her stomach rumbled with hunger. Bane smiled as he spooned
his Underworld food, which, she surmised, was probably made from
the decomposing remains of human sacrifices made below. Her stomach
clenched at the sight and smell of the terrible stuff.

"What is the matter, witch? Do
you not like the food?"