Demon Lord (6 page)

"I didn't have anything to do
with the beating, healer," he said. "You healed me, so I reckon I
owe you."

Mirra recognised the man whose
leg she had healed, and hope surged within her. She managed a weak
smile, her mouth too dry to speak. He pulled a water skin from his
coat and held it to her lips. The cool liquid slid down her burning
throat, bringing blessed relief. Although her healing power would
block the pain of wounds, it did not prevent the pangs of thirst
and hunger. She made the most of his kindness and drained the water
skin.

When it was finished, she licked
the last cool drops from her lips and smiled at him again. "Thank
you. You are a kind man."

He shrugged, tucking the water
skin away. "One good turn deserves another."

"The goddess will bless those
who help a healer."

"Reckon I'm beyond
redemption."

Mirra shook her head. "All can
be saved if they repent."

The man grunted at her pious
words and slipped away into the darkness before she could ask him
to release her. She dozed for a while, drooping in the ropes, but
jerked awake at the sound of soft footfalls. Another soldier crept
towards her in the moonlight, a swarthy man with a scarred face and
rusty, dented armour. He stopped before her, eyes darting, as his
comrade had done.

"Healer, I've a pain, will you
help?"

"Of course. Touch me."

The soldier laid a hand on her
arm, and her power flowed into him. It found the cause of his pain,
a malignant tumour in his stomach, and healed it in a few moments.
The pain faded, making him sigh and smile with relief. He pulled
some bread from his pouch and tore it into chunks, which he fed to
her before he crept away. Much later, a drizzle woke her again,
soaking her torn robe and chilling her to the bone. For the rest of
the night she shivered, and the rope cut into her arms as it
swelled with the moisture.

When morning came, a warm,
welcome sun edged free of the pink clouds and touched her with its
glorious power, banishing the chill. The black-clad man visited
her, and surveyed her bedraggled state with evident satisfaction.
She lifted her eyes to gaze at him, struck afresh by the purity of
his sun-gilded features.

"Do the bonds hurt, witch?"

"No."

"They damn well should."
Scowling, he stepped closer and tested their tautness. His touch
forced her to share his pain, and her healing power flowed, but
again was repulsed. He found the ropes tight and glared at her.
"Why is it that nothing hurts you, and my father orders me to kill
you?"

"I do not know."

"I have killed healers before
with the fire. They die like anyone else."

Sorrow blossomed within her.
"Why did you kill them?"

"I felt like it! Do not question
me!" He glowered at her with brilliant eyes. "I shall find a way to
make you suffer before you die, and when I do, you will rue the day
you were born, witch."

Mirra watched him march away,
sadness settling on her like a dark shroud. There was no reason to
kill healers. They only helped those in need, and never harmed
anyone or anything. She had done nothing to deserve his hatred or
his attempts at torturing her, and it made no sense. Even an
invading army needed help for their wounded, and the healers could
deny none, not even their enemies. He was filled with anger and
bitterness, and his pain was so deep it touched his very soul. She
longed to free him from the darkness that hung about him, to find
the reason for his suffering and cure it.

That night, two more men came to
be healed, bringing food and water. One, a little bolder than the
others, spoke to her for a while, and she learnt how this army had
formed, gathering around the dark man. When she asked about him,
the soldier could tell her little. He seemed reluctant to talk
about him, even afraid to mention his name. He claimed that he had
joined the army to gain riches, and she pitied him. All the while,
he kept glancing at the big tent, and Mirra sensed his fear.

"Why are you so afraid of him?"
she asked.

"Why?" The man grunted. "Because
of who he is, of course!"

"Who is he?"

The soldier leant closer, giving
her the benefit of his foetid breath. "He's Bane, the Demon
Lord!"

"He is not a demon."

"Perhaps not, but he is evil. He
comes from the Underworld. He's the Black Lord's son, I've
heard."

While Mirra pondered this
startling information, the man slipped away. Once again, she had
not asked him to release her, but by now she sensed that these men
were too scared to defy their leader. She had been told about the
Underworld and its ruler, the Black Lord, but her teachers had not
mentioned that he had a son.

Mirra did not see Bane for two
days, and each night two men came to be healed, bringing food and
water. When she found herself healing an ingrown toenail, she
realised she had won their pity. The nights were too cold for her
to sleep. Her shivering kept her awake, and the drizzle that
usually fell before dawn added to her misery. During the day she
dozed, hanging in her bonds, and woke with a stiff neck and a nasty
sensation that she was becoming part of the tree to which she was
bound. The unanswered questions about Bane and her uncertain future
plagued her, but her mind only ran in circles when she thought
about that. Instead, she concentrated on keeping warm at night and
sleeping as much as she could during the day.

On the third day, Bane came to
inspect her, and scowled at her good health.

"Why are you not half dead from
thirst, witch?" Before she could answer, he swung around and
roared, "Traitors!"

Across the meadow, men leapt up
from their campfires and sprinted for the woods. The Demon Lord
snarled, and his eyes filled with blackness. He lashed her with the
fire, and she writhed as her stomach churned. With a flick of his
hand, he sent a bolt across the valley to gouge a chunk out of the
ground behind the fleeing men. Bane shouted for Mord, and the troll
scuttled up and abased himself, his face screwed up with
terror.

He gestured at Mirra. "Cut her
down. Wash the stink from her, and bring her to my tent. Those
bastards will not feed her again."

Bane stalked back to his tent,
the jet cloak swirling about him as if his rage had fuelled it to
animation. Mord ran to find help, and returned with two reluctant
gnomes. When they cut her bonds, Mirra's rubbery legs would not
obey her. They carried her to a stream in the forest and washed her
with coarse soap, scrubbing her ragged hair. Mord hacked off the
remaining tresses that hung from her scalp in tangled clumps with
his knife. When she was clean, they wrapped her in an old,
threadbare green robe and carried her to Bane's tent.

The Black Lord's son sat on the
bed, clutching his head. When Mord entered, he yelled, "What took
you so long? Fetch my medicine!"

Mord darted out, and the gnomes
dumped Mirra and fled. Bane glared at her, his eyes bloodshot and
his skin sheened with sweat. "Now you smell like a damned
harlot."

Mirra sat up and reached out to
him, sensing his pain in palpable waves. "Let me help you."

He smacked her hands away. "I do
not need your damned help!"

"You suffer."

"Leave me alone, witch!"

Mord dashed in, cowering, and
placed a cup on the table before fleeing again. Mirra winced as
Bane drained the drug.

"That will kill you."

"Rubbish."

"It is poison."

"Be silent! All of a sudden you
have a lot to say, and I do not want to hear it. Must I gag
you?"

Bane threw the cup at her and
lay back on the bed. Closing his eyes, he clasped his temples, his
face drawn with weariness. Mirra waited until his slow breathing
told her that he slept, then crept closer, forcing her legs to work
a little. Her nature cried out to help him. His pain hurt her
deeply, and she longed to ease it. Laying her fingertips on his
arm, she sensed again the alien power that blocked her healing. She
concentrated, trying to push past it.

Bane jerked awake and lashed
out, striking her in the face and knocking her back against the
tent wall. The hurts healed as she turned to find him sitting up,
his face thunderous.

"Keep your filthy hands off
me!"

Mirra looked at her hands, which
were clean. "But they are not -"

"Silence!"

Bane ran a hand through his
hair, combing it into glossy, feather-like layers. He contemplated
her, then rose and tied her hands behind her with twine before
going back to sleep.

For two days, she neither ate
nor drank, while Bane consumed evil, reddish food and a lot of
strong wine. For the most part, he ignored her while he studied his
maps or left her alone when he strolled amongst his men. Apart from
ordering Mord around, he spoke to no one, and seemed to wish no
company. Sometimes, he glared at her as if her presence, silent and
unobtrusive though it was, offended him. Apart from when Mord took
her to use the trench latrine, she spent all her time curled up in
the corner of the tent.

On the third day, a troll runner
came in with a message. Bane sat at his table, maps spread across
it as usual, a cup of wine in one hand. The hairy creature abased
himself, and Bane gestured for him to rise.

"What is it?"

"Lord, we've found a ward, in
the sea town of Agaspen."

"Is it in a church?"

"Yes, Lord."

With a cold smile, Bane
straightened and banged down his cup of wine, sloshing its contents
and making the troll whimper.

"We march!" The troll darted
out, and Bane turned to Mirra. "A bit of marching should sap your
strength. Everyone dies of thirst, witch, even you."

Mirra was unable to think of
anything to say in reply to this, besides which, her mouth was too
dry to speak.

Amid much bustle and shouting
the camp was struck, and Bane mounted the red dragon to lead the
troops along the road. The horde straggled after him, its ranks
swelled by those squadrons that had returned from their search,
overflowing the road to blacken the fields around it. Mirra walked
amongst them, Mord leading her by a rope around her neck. As soon
as Bane was far enough away, one of the men who walked beside her
held a water skin to her lips. Mord turned and snarled at him, but
he ignored the troll, who was apparently unwilling to enter into a
physical conflict over the matter. When she had drunk her fill, the
men gave her dry biscuits and bread, and the sustenance gave her
the strength to walk for the rest of the day.

When they camped at dusk, Mord
brought her to the Demon Lord's tent, and at the sight of her his
expression became murderous.

"Those bastards!" With a vicious
backhand blow, he knocked her down. "They have been feeding you
again, have they not? They have given you water!"

Mirra nodded, and Bane swung
around. She glimpsed Mord's fleeing hairy form.

"Mord!" Bane's bellow echoed
around the camp, causing faraway men to abandon their campfires and
race for the woods. "Bring them to me! I want those men, or I will
torture every one of you! You will all pay!"

"Please do not," Mirra begged.
"They were only being kind."

"Silence!" Bane kicked her,
sending her rolling with a grunt.

In a remarkably short time, two
terrified men were dragged before him, bound and bruised, their
dirty clothes torn. They struggled in the brutish hands of four
rough-looking men who obviously had no intention of paying for the
crimes of the good Samaritans. The ruffians pushed the hapless duo
to their knees and backed away. Bane approached them, and they
grovelled in abject terror, whimpering. Mirra recognised them, and
her heart twisted. They were the men who had helped her, not too
others chosen at random.

Rolling onto her side, she got
to her knees. "Bane, please do not punish them!"

He turned and slapped her,
knocking her down again. "I told you to hold your tongue!"

The Demon Lord stood over the
men, his hands on his hips, then gestured to Mord. "Whip them, then
bind them to stakes and leave them beside the road. They can suffer
the same fate as the healer will, when the rest of these idiots
have learnt not to defy me." He raised his voice to address the
hidden army. "When I say the witch does not eat or drink, she does
not! Any who disobey will share her fate, just as these do."

The men were dragged away, and
Bane strode to his tent, thrusting aside the flap with a vicious
blow and vanishing inside. Mirra gazed after him, filled with
anguish and misery. Soon the men's cries pierced the night's hush,
punctuated by the sharp crack of a lash on bare flesh. She wept
until Mord returned to drag her into the tent, where Bane already
slept. He did not appear to awaken when Mord dumped her on the
floor, and she curled up and fell into an exhausted slumber. The
men's muffled cries haunted her dreams, and she jerked awake
several times, her heart pounding with anguish.

The next day, none of the
soldiers dared to come near her, but many cast her pitying looks.
She kept her eyes downcast, unable to meet their glances, filled
with a terrible guilt for those who had paid so dearly for their
kindness. By midday she stumbled, weak with hunger, dragged along
by the rope. Her ordeal ended sooner than she expected when they
reached a coastal town just after noon. The fishing village was a
huddle of stone houses surrounded by a high grey wall, only the
red-tiled roofs visible. It nestled against ancient cliffs, which
bestrode the land like a huge step, dense woodland on top of
them.

A chequerboard of cultivated
fields surrounded the town, and livestock grazed in lush pastures.
The cliff curved away from the town where it invaded the sea,
sheltering a rocky cove that bristled with jetties and dozens of
fishing boats. Smoke rose from the chimneys in a semblance of
normality, but the town had been warned of the army's approach, and
its gates were closed. The villagers had barricaded the tall wooden
doors with overturned wagons outside, as well as within, Mirra
guessed. Even now, the last men were being pulled up the walls with
ropes, their task complete.