Demon Lord (10 page)

She met his eyes. "I do not eat
flesh."

"Ah." He chuckled nastily. "I
knew that, of course. But you will eat it now, for Mord made it
especially. You would not want to hurt his feelings, would
you?"

"No, but I cannot eat this."

"You can, and you will."

"No." She shook her head.

Bane's fist hit the table top
with a terrific bang, making the crockery, and Mirra, jump. "You
will obey me!"

Mirra looked down at her
twisting hands. "I cannot. I am sorry."

The Demon Lord smirked and
turned to call out of the door flap, "Mord, bring me the man who
helps her."

Fear clutched her heart. "No,
please do not hurt him."

"Then eat your breakfast, you
ungrateful girl."

Mirra stared at him, not
understanding his wish to torture her. No one had been cruel to her
before, and she wondered why it pleased him so. Her hands wound
together in an agony of vacillation at the terrible choice that he
forced her to make. Mord arrived outside the open flap with two
more trolls, who dragged the hapless Benton.

The soldier stared at the Demon
Lord with abject terror, then his gaze flicked to her. Mirra
cringed under his pleading gaze and picked up her fork. Her hand
trembled as she looked at the dead remains on her plate, longing to
jump up and flee. Bane smirked, his eyes sparkling. When she
continued to hesitate, unable to bring herself to touch the food,
he gestured to the waiting troll.

"Beat him."

"No!"

Mirra speared a piece of meat
and thrust it into her mouth. She forced herself to chew it and
closed her mind to the taste of dead flesh. Bane chuckled and made
her eat every scrap, keeping Benton on hand so that she could not
refuse. When the ordeal was over, he rose and flicked his fingers
at the waiting trolls, who released their prisoner. Mirra fought
the sickness that churned her stomach until Benton was safely away,
then reeled out of the tent to vomit. Bane's laughter followed her,
filled with sadistic satisfaction. He walked away to mount the red
dragon, leaving her weak and shaking, trying to spit out the last
of the foul taste.

Benton returned to find her
sitting forlorn on the ground, while Mord packed away the Demon
Lord's tent. She gulped the water he gave her, washing away the
last of the oily taste. As soon as she was able, she followed the
tramping horde from the vale in which they had camped, Benton
beside her. He gave her some bread, but the rest of his supplies
consisted of dried meat, the troops' staple ration. Still, with
that and the water, her strength returned somewhat, and she only
required his help a little.

Each night, Mord took her to
Bane's tent, where she slept beside his bed. At times he woke her
when he tossed and turned, but for the most part he ignored her.
Only when he used her for his sadistic pleasure did he pay her any
attention. He forced her to eat meat almost every day, and once he
made her drink wine until her head spun and she vomited.

Mirra endured it in silence, and
his enjoyment dwindled, since she gave him no satisfaction with her
meek acceptance of his cruelty. Sometimes she would weep at night
for his twisted soul and all the innocents he had slaughtered.
Outside, the lupine howls of hunting dark creatures and the distant
screams of their prey echoed. None ventured near the Demon Lord's
tent, and after a while the blood-chilling sounds no longer jerked
her into shivering wakefulness.

Each day, Bane's army swallowed
up the land. They marched like a disease over fields and through
picturesque towns, leaving ravaged ruins and trampled mud in their
wake. The dark creatures followed in the forests' dimness, and
ventured out only when they were forced to cross open stretches.
Although they frightened and horrified her, Mirra pitied the
twisted beasts as they shuffled, limped and crawled to the safety
of the next forest. The sky remained grim and grey, but even its
pale light seemed to torment the dark beasts. The vampires suffered
least, being the only ones who could fly, while the large,
slow-moving grotesques sometimes moaned with pain as they endured
the sun's hated touch.

On several occasions, they
caught a luckless peasant, too stubborn, too stupid, or unable to
run from the encroaching horde, and these were tortured horribly
before they died. Bane took immense pleasure in making Mirra watch
these atrocities, and her pain apparently brought him great
satisfaction. His favourite torture method was laying the victim on
hot coals, so that he did not suffocate in the smoke, but died
slowly. Next was dismemberment, relieving the victim of fingers,
then toes, then hands, until he bled to death. Flaying was also
high on his list, as was disembowelment and strangulation. Often,
the unfortunate men were left to contemplate their intestines as
the army marched past. Women, more rarely found, were given to the
army for sport, and at times their screaming agony lasted for days
before they died.

Oddly, Bane did not participate
in these atrocities. He only watched, although his enjoyment did
sicken her. Stranger still, the women's ravishment was also
confined to the troops. Bane did not partake in this entertainment
either. It also did not seem to occur to him to torture her in this
manner, and she grew to realise that she was his personal toy, and
not to be shared with the rabble. Since he partook in the killing
only rarely and the torture not at all, it appeared that she was
safe from that form of abuse for the moment. Neither did he seem
interested in using her for his pleasure. She had not once glimpsed
a flicker of anything even remotely resembling lust in his eyes
when he looked at her, only contempt and grim amusement. He was
indeed, she decided, an extremely strange man, although she was
grateful for this particular oddity.

After five days of walking,
Mirra stumbled with exhaustion. The flesh had melted from her,
leaving her thin and fragile. Benton gave her food, but she had
little appetite, and sometimes she was too tired to eat when they
stopped for a brief rest at midday. In the evening, she flopped
down on the floor of Bane's tent and fell instantly asleep.

On the sixth day, they reached
the foothills of a range of rocky mountains. The steep stone slopes
rose from the forest like bones pushing through the skin of a
rotting carcass. Mirra waited with the troops while Bane entered
the cave to which his scrying had led him. He was gone for some
time, and the men muttered. When a gout of blue fire belched from
the cave mouth, Mirra flinched. A hush fell as everyone waited,
then Bane emerged and raised his arms.

"The second ward is broken!"

An unenthusiastic cheer greeted
his announcement, then the men turned away to make camp. Benton
took Mirra to Bane's tent and left her to wait outside in Mord's
care. The temperature had dropped as they approached the mountains,
and she shivered despite the warm jacket Benton had given her,
probably looted from an abandoned farm. Mord was soon summoned
inside to deliver the drug for Bane's headache, and dragged her in
with him. The troll pushed her onto the floor, left the cup and
scuttled out.

Bane sat hunched on the bed, his
head in his hands. He glared at her before drinking his potion and
flinging the cup aside. She settled beside the tent wall, trying to
be inconspicuous. Bane with a headache was not someone with whom to
trifle. His eyes bored into her, and she studied his boots.

"The wizard who set that ward
was cunning. Far cleverer than the one who set the first ward. This
one had a trap."

Mirra glanced at him, noting his
bloodshot eyes and furrowed brow. She was surprised that he spoke
to her, for he rarely did, and not usually in such a conversational
tone.

"Are you all right?"

"You almost sound concerned,
witch, but do not think you fool me. I am perfectly all right. For
all his cunning, the wizard set a weak ward, thinking his trap
would kill any who tried to break it. But I am more powerful than
any wizard who ever walked this earth. His trap was a mere
annoyance to me."

Bane's haggard look belied his
words, but he grunted in disgust and stretched out on the bed.
Mirra lay down and pulled the jacket around her as the cold seeped
up from the ground. His occasional attempts at conversation
frightened and confused her. She did not wish to say the wrong
thing and send him into a rage, but was not sure of what the wrong
thing was.

Showing concern always annoyed
him, yet she could not bring herself to pretend to hate him as he
seemed to expect. Keeping quiet appeared to be the best solution,
then she sometimes escaped his notice for days, and avoided the
ordeal of his malicious games. She longed to gain some insight into
his life and what had moulded him into what he was, but no one
seemed to know much about him, and she dared not question him.

Bane received
a dream from his father that night. The Black Lord appeared in a
blaze of dark power, radiating pleasure and triumph.
The swirling background of bright orange streaked
with yellow indicated his good mood. Bane basked in the wash of
pleasure, making the most of its rare bestowment.

"You have done well, my son.
Two wards broken. A great achievement."

"Thank you father. I shall not
fail you."

"No, you will not." His father
spoke with unnerving certainty. "But I am displeased that the
healer still lives. Kill her, Bane."

"She is my plaything, father. I
enjoy tormenting her."

"I do not care. I want her
dead." The dream darkened, and red streaks appeared in the orange,
with a hint of raging sea.

"What harm can she do?" Bane
enquired. "She is a pathetic, weak thing. Can I not have my little
pleasures?"

"I ordered you to kill her, so
do it!"

The Black Lord's bellow filled
Bane's head with pain as a huge wave of darkness loomed over him,
and he jerked awake. He sat up, gasping and shivering. This was the
first time he had argued with his father, or defied him. Why had he
done that? The healer meant nothing to him. He could snap her neck
as easily as breaking a twig.

Perhaps he was merely asserting
himself. He would kill her when he was good and ready, not before.
He looked down at the girl asleep on the floor, his keen night
vision seeing her clearly. Why did his father so desperately want
her dead? What could she possibly do to threaten him? He did enjoy
making her suffer, and soon he would kill her. Soon, he promised
the Black Lord silently; soon she would die, when he, Bane, felt
like it.

The following day, the army
rested in the foothills. Mord dragged Mirra out of the tent at
Bane's irritated grunt, to spend the day with Benton and his
companions, sitting around a campfire. Bane appeared to be in a
fouler mood than usual, and glared at her until she left, his
headache troubling him. She had discovered that when he had a
headache he did not bother with his cruelties and torments, but
preferred to be alone. She listened to the stories the soldiers
swapped as she sipped hot tea and nibbled sugared fruits and cakes
looted from the larders of abandoned farms and shops in the village
they had passed through two days before.

The men in Benton's group had
discovered that Mirra would not eat meat, and no longer offered it
to her. Instead, they made a point of collecting sweets and
pastries for her, which otherwise they would have scorned. The good
food added to her strength a little, although her appetite remained
poor.

Bane spent most of the day in
his tent, but emerged in the afternoon to stroll through the army.
Men, trolls and goblins fled from him. He did not approach Mirra's
companions, yet the men still watched his progress warily, their
eyes filled with hatred and dread. When he had once more vanished
into his tent, Benton relaxed and turned to Mirra.

"I don't know how you can stand
to be near him, Mirra. He's so full of evil it makes us sick.

She smiled. "He does not worry
me, other than his suffering."

"He's a demon," Madick
asserted.

"No he's not," Benton argued.
"Demons can't get past the wards. He's the Demon Lord, and evil.
His soul is as corrupt as the Black Lord's."

"An' what's going to happen when
the wards are all gone?" another soldier asked.

Benton shrugged. "The Black Lord
will rule us, I guess."

Silence fell as the men digested
this. Mirra thought about Bane's assurance that they would all die
when the Black Lord rose, but thought it best to keep quiet. For
now, they were safe. If they knew what fate lay in store for them,
they might attempt to rebel and die all the sooner.

A rock howler limped over to
them, and the men let him approach Mirra so she could heal his cut
foot. Rock howlers wore no garment other than their thick red
pelts, and their horny feet needed no shoes, usually. From time to
time, members of Bane's army came to her for healing, and she
denied none, not even those whom she recognised as the perpetrators
of the atrocities.

The rock howler offered her a
sweet pastry in payment, which she accepted with a smile. At first,
the men she healed had tried to give her looted jewels, but these
she had rejected. Now they gave her only food, though some gave
nothing. The first time that had happened, Benton had been enraged,
but Mirra had stopped him with a gentle touch.

"Do not be angry," she had said.
"He is lost, and I require no payment."

Benton had looked confused, and
the man had snarled and stomped off. After that, Benton did not
object.

Mirra shivered as the cold
mountain wind cut through her coat. Long shadows crept across the
land as dusk fell. Soon she would have to return to Bane's tent for
the night. Stretching her hands out to the fire, she tried to
absorb more heat through her palms. The silence left by the rock
howler's visit remained unbroken, the men sunk in private, morose
thoughts. She gazed at the flickering flames, remembering her life
at the abbey with a smile. A muttered curse from one of the men
plucked her from her reverie, and she looked up to find them
scrambling away from the fire.