Demon Lord (19 page)

"Indeed, you would like me to be
powerless."

"I want to help you to get
better."

His striking face twisted in a
grimace. "Maybe I should carve some runes in you." The dagger
pricked her skin, and she paled. He straightened and raised the
weapon to cut the first rune in his chest.

The pain was much worse this
time. Bane carved the same four runes, touching her as he did so,
sharing his pain. She rested from the agony while he scraped off
the running blood, then convulsed as he rubbed in the green paste.
Her throat grew raw from screaming, and the dark magic he sucked
from the shadows made her vomit so much she thought she would
choke. He was also ill, as before, but not nearly as sick as she
was. Without her magic, the effect of the black power was far
worse, chilling her flesh and sinking into her bones. The
hallucinations added to her terror, forcing her to shut her eyes to
block them out, which increased the agony.

By the time he had drunk the
blood and completed the ritual, Mirra sagged, bathed in cold sweat
and gasping for air. Bane squatted before her, untied her hands and
rubbed them across the still-glowing runes on his chest, slippery
with sweat, blood and foul potions. The evil within him was
stronger than ever, making her flinch and try to tug her hands from
his cold grip.

"Do you still think you can help
me, witch?"

She nodded. "If I had
power."

"That you will never have again,
I promise." He cupped her cheek in an icy palm, smiling when she
shuddered and turned her head away. "You do not like my touch, do
you? But let us be honest, you do not like me, do you? You just
await your chance to try to kill me, not so, little witch? But in
the meantime, you are my plaything; my little toy."

He crooned the words, his eyes
piercing in their intensity, as if he strived to see into her soul.
His caress would have been seductive if not for the repulsion of
his power and the venom of his words. "It must be hard to be my
toy, poor little plaything. How I love to hear you scream; it makes
it all worthwhile."

He smiled mockingly. "You claim
you want to help me, so do your best to be entertaining, witch,
lest I tire of you." He released her and strode out, shouting for
Mord.

It took Bane three days to
recover from the ritual, but even then, his eyes were bloodshot
again, his lips too red, and his unnatural pallor had returned.
With the dark power came his foul temper and brutality, worse than
before.

The army remained in the town
for several days. Bane did not tell her why, but she was glad of
the rest. Mirra stayed close to him, fearful of demons, and
received many slaps and blows. He seemed to relish the fact that
she was forced to endure his company in order to gain his
protection, and made it as unpleasant as possible. He taunted her,
slipped away when she was not watching, laughing when she came in
frantic search of him.

Her pity for him grew with every
jibe and blow, for she shared his inner torment as if it was her
own. He seemed to find her timid smiles and constant forgiveness
maddening; it made his rages worse and his treatment of her more
brutal. Several times the beatings only ended when he knocked her
unconscious, and twice he throttled her until she passed out.
Sometimes his raised fist did not strike, but usually the blow
landed, yet even then he held back, for he had not broken a bone,
only inflicted bruises, which, considering his inhuman strength,
was quite a feat.

Mirra decided that this was
because if she was injured, she would become a burden, unable to
heal herself, so he confined himself to inflicting as much pain as
he could without actually crippling her. He did not seem to draw
the satisfaction from torturing her that he had done in the past,
however. If anything, her suffering appeared to anger him further,
making him storm away, leaving her to weep for both of their
suffering. At times she would look up to find him watching her, his
expression brooding, and when she did, he usually flew into a
rage.

Bane's mood improved remarkably
when a scout came in to report the approach of an army, becoming
filled with gleeful purpose, excited by the prospect of bloodshed.
He ordered the men to ready themselves, and the houses they used
for barracks were filled with the clatter of steel as they cleaned
and sharpened their weapons. Bane summoned another demon steed from
the fire, forcing Mirra to watch and laughing at her fear and
horror.

This one was as brightly crimson
as the first had been black, only it seemed larger, more fearsome
than the first. He pronounced its name to be Orriss, and seemed
pleased with his choice. Next he scried the army, counting troops
and divining his enemy's strategy, then scried another ward,
rolling three potential headaches into one massive one, which
forced him to rest for a day.

Mirra, one eye black from a slap
he had given her the previous day, her neck mottled with bruises,
brought a bowl of cold water and a cloth to his room. He eyed her
as she approached his bed.

"Get out."

She hesitated. "I brought some
cold water. It will ease the pain."

"I want nothing from you."

"Please, Bane, let me put some
on your brow. It will help."

He sat up, scowling. "I do not
want your damned help! How many times must I tell you? Leave me
alone!"

Mirra tilted the bowl so that he
could see its contents. "It is only water."

Leaping off the bed, he smashed
the bowl from her hands, raising one of his. She gazed up at him
with tears shimmering in her eyes, and he lowered his arm.

"Get out, before I kill
you."

Mirra left, hurt by his constant
rejection. Her nature compelled her to try to ease the suffering of
others, yet when Bane had a headache, to try was dangerous. At
least this time he had not struck her.

Settling down against the wall
outside his door, Mirra longed to visit Benton. She missed the easy
camaraderie that had sprung up between them. She was mindful of the
danger of wandering too far from Bane, however, and, except for
occasional forays to the kitchen for food, she stayed as close to
him as she could. She gazed into space, dreaming of the life she
had always wanted, as a healer in her tiny cottage in the woods.
Perhaps when this was all over, she would get her wish.

A cold draught made her shiver,
and she looked around for its source. The day was hot, despite the
thick clouds, and until now had been airless. A bad smell wafted to
her, borne on the cold air, and she wrinkled her nose. Perhaps
someone had opened the door of a cellar in which a corpse lay
rotting. The smell sickened her, and she swallowed, tempted to go
to the window at the end of the corridor to escape it.

As she was about to, Bane's door
was wrenched open, and he strode out to stand before her, facing
down the corridor whence the cold stench blew.

"Show yourself, Yansahesh; your
presence offends me."

Mirra gasped as a pale fog
coalesced in the air, taking on the six-armed demonic aspect. The
air demon bowed, its pale eyes aglow with a cold light.

"Greetings, Bane. Your vigilance
is laudable, but in such bad taste."

"I will decide on taste. How
dare you judge me?"

"Ah, Demon Lord, I am not as
foolish as my brother. I refer, of course, to the wench, a
worthless piece of human trash that you guard so zestfully. I, of
course, have the best chance of killing her, as your father so much
desires, after my brothers have failed so woefully."

Bane's eyes narrowed. "You
challenge me?"

"Never." It gave a hissing
chuckle. "You cannot shelter her all the time, like a broody hen
with one chick. She has but to stray, and she will die."

Bane opened his mouth, but the
demon vanished, leaving only its smell. He turned to look down at
Mirra. "Wonderful. Air demons are probably the worst of all, clever
and quick to come and go."

Bane re-entered his room, and
Mirra followed. He poured a cup of wine and sat in a chair,
frowning. "He will return. I did not have the chance to banish
him."

"I am safe with you."

He snorted. "I do not need the
aggravation, and I could do without the headache too."

She bowed her head. "I wish
there was something I could do in return for your protection."

His brows knotted. "My
protection! You have to be the stupidest creature in the world. I
deny you the release of death, and give you suffering instead, and
you thank me?"

He gave a harsh bark of
mirthless laughter. "Tomorrow we go to battle. That is when he will
strike, as soon as he feels I am distracted. Unlike the earth and
fire demons, he can kill you very swiftly, since you have no power.
Had you been powerless then, Mealle's glance would have reduced you
to ashes, and Yalnebar's first blow would have crushed you. The
water demon, Amnon, could only drown you. Water demons are not very
powerful, and, even without your power, you seem immune to mine.
Yansahesh can kill you in a few seconds."

"Will you let me have some
power?"

"No. If you want so much to live
and suffer, it is up to you to stay close to me. If you wander off,
it will be your last mistake."

"But you will be riding, might
you not leave me behind?"

Bane chuckled. "Where do you
think I am going? You think I will ride into battle, slashing with
my trusty sword? In case you have not noticed, I do not possess a
sword, nor do I fight. That is why I have an army, to do the dirty
work for me and spare me a headache."

She nodded, comforted. The
thought of Bane, a bleeder, amongst all those sharp weapons filled
her with dread, but he obviously knew the danger. He poured himself
some more wine and settled back, brooding.

The next morning, a gaudily
dressed herald came to the town and delivered the challenge. It was
addressed to the 'Heinous Destroyer, Slayer of women and children,
Despoiler of the Land, Son of the Black Lord'. Bane chuckled at the
well-earned titles. The Earl of Timon, it seemed, wished to meet
Bane's army in the fields around the town for a glorious battle.
Bane laughed at the pompous proclamation, drawing much amusement
from the plight of the luckless herald, who strived to appear
fearless whilst preventing his knees from knocking together.

Bane toyed with him awhile,
shooting him sudden venomous glances that made the man sweat and
jerk like a frightened rabbit. Then he jumped up and strode over to
the herald, who stiffened in terror, on the verge of bolting. Bane
did not touch him, since the man seemed likely to drop dead from
sheer panic, and contented himself with looming over him instead,
chuckling at the poor man's quaking.

If the herald had been ordered
to show no fear, he failed miserably, but Bane's behaviour gave
Mirra a rare insight into the workings of his mind. She knew he
enjoyed inflicting pain on others, but he seemed to revel in their
fear as well, and she wondered if the two were linked. Did he
torture people because they feared him, or to make them fear him?
Was that why he seemed to enjoy her pain less, because she was less
afraid of him than most? She longed to ask him a hundred questions,
but knew she would receive few, if any, answers.

When Bane tired of his sport, he
sent a terse agreement back with the ashen-faced herald. He smiled
as the man scuttled away, glancing at Mirra. His forces outnumbered
the Earl's men three to one, and he would enjoy the spectacle.

Mirra cringed inwardly at the
prospect, wishing she could stay at the inn and not be forced to
watch the carnage. The air demon's threat prevented her, however.
She had to remain close to the Demon Lord, or die. He did not care
either way, so he said; the choice was hers. Bane sent orders to
his captains, then left the inn and rode to the edge of town. She
followed, standing beside him as his troops formed up into their
ragged companies. They slouched into position, muttering and
shuffling, adjusting ill-fitting armour and rattling rusty swords.
Those that were not armed simply stood, scratching at lice or
picking their teeth.

As Bane addressed his captains,
who gathered at a safe distance, Mirra looked up at the grey sky,
attracted by the cawing of a raven. The bird circled above her,
then swooped low, and something fell at her feet. She picked it up,
and found a silk-wrapped golden pearl. As soon as she unwrapped it,
the power soaked into her palm, filling her with wonderful warmth
and joy. Her aches and bruises vanished, and she breathed a silent
word of thanks to her sisters at some distant abbey as she watched
the bird wing away, its task complete. She experienced a twinge of
guilt, for Bane did not want her to have power, but many would be
wounded in the coming battle, and she was glad that now she could
heal them.

Bane was too busy to notice the
change in her, and she walked behind him as he rode out to where
the houses thinned and ploughed fields lined the road behind low
stone walls. The army slouched past in disorderly ranks, giving the
demon steed and its rider a wide berth. Mirra spotted Benton and
waved to him, receiving a sad smile. As the last of the warriors
trudged past, the dark creatures slunk into the shadows of the
buildings behind them, gathering on the edge of town, red eyes
glowing from the darkness of doorways and alleys. Any daylight, no
matter how weak, would burn them, so they preferred to keep their
exposure to a minimum.

The Earl of Timon's knights
appeared from the woods on the far side of the green fields, clad
in shining armour and bright tabards, banners snapping bravely in
the wind. The warhorses, caparisoned in silver-studded harness and
polished chain mail, cavorted eagerly, held to a walk by their
riders. Heads decked with bright plumes tossed, and manes and tails
flew in the breeze. The Earl rode a tall, milk-white stallion, his
blue and white livery standing out against the duller backdrop of
bay and black horses, his polished armour glinting.