Demon Lord (20 page)

Foot soldiers marched behind the
line of knights, rank upon orderly rank, long pikes resting on
their shoulders as they advanced to their positions. As they fanned
out, they edged the dark forest with a band of bright colour and
flashing steel. They were a marvellous sight in all their finery,
Mirra thought, their battle flags and pennants held proudly aloft,
but no amount of courage would win them this battle. They were
doomed, walking dead men, and she wished they would turn and flee
to save themselves, but knew they would not.

By contrast, Bane's motley
rabble strode out with little ceremony. They carried no banners,
blew no horns, and none rode horses. Their dirty clothes were dark
and ragged, their weapons poor, dented and scarred from ill use.
They dwarfed the Earl's army through sheer numbers, however; a dark
mass that spread across the green fields like a foul black and red
tide. Bane watched, smiling, as his men reached the halfway mark
and milled around, waiting. The trolls beat their fists on the
ground, setting up a dull thudding, while rock howlers bounced and
whooped high shrieks of feral glee. The men, not to be outdone,
beat their swords on their shields and chanted Bane's name.

The Demon Lord's army seethed in
a spreading mass across the town's grazing fields, shouting their
battle cries. Beyond them, the Earl's smaller force waited, stony
faced, as the last of the foot soldiers emerged from the wood and
formed up into their ranks. The still air carried the barked orders
of their captains faintly through the deep-throated chanting of
Bane's men, and mounted men cantered up and down the ranks, waving
banners and extolling the soldiers to fight the evil before them.
As the last man settled into his position, the mounted men returned
to their commander's side, joining his rank of knights.

The Earl of Timon raised his
sword and brought it down in a flashing arc. Horns blared, drums
thundered, and his army roared behind him as his charger sprang
into a gallop. The warhorses charged, the knights' lances lowering
in a line, perfectly drilled. The Earl led them, a shining figure
giving courage to his men as they thundered across the fields
towards the black sea of gesticulating, stamping death. The foot
soldiers raced down the hill behind the knights, beating their
swords on their shields as they ran, giving vent to blood-curdling
war whoops in an effort to drown out the enemy.

The two armies met with a
terrific crash, and Mirra winced as screams erupted. Horses fell
and men shrieked as they died on sword point or lance tip. The
cavalry charge carried the horses well into the seething melee of
Bane's army, where scores of slashing swords cut them down. A
minute after the knights had joined battle, the foot soldiers
ploughed in, staying in their ranks, protecting each other with
shields as they stabbed and slashed at the rabble before them. The
dark creatures quit the shelter of the buildings and rushed to join
the fray, those that could fly swooping into the battle from above.
The rest slithered, crawled or ran on strange stilt-like legs,
giving chilling gibbers of glee. Since they ate human meat, today's
battle would also be a feast.

The Earl wielded his sword in
great strokes, cutting down any who came near him, a knot of
knights trying to protect him. The ranks of foot soldiers pushed
slowly forward, leaving piles of dead in their wake. The knights
had split into groups, swords flashing as they fought the swarms of
men and beasts that sought to drag them down.

Sometimes a horse would fall,
gutted, and its rider would vanish into the mob. Riderless
warhorses bolted from the battle, bleeding from terrible wounds,
some to founder shortly after they reached safety. Still, the Earl
fought on, a brave figure atop the rearing stallion, his knot of
knights dwindling. Gaps appeared in the ranks of foot soldiers, and
many formed circles of shields, keeping the mob at bay.

A sob tore at Mirra's throat,
and she turned away, unable to watch the terrible carnage and
longing to flee.

"What fools they are." Bane's
scathing comment reached her over the distant roar of the battle.
"Fighting each other, for nothing. Especially the idiots who follow
me. They fight their countrymen, but they too will die in the
end."

Mirra barely noticed Bane look
back at her, smile at her hunched form, and shrug. Mord hovered at
the edge of town, and she wondered why he was not fighting. Behind
her, the battle raged on, and she was unable to block out the
screams, crashes, roars and clatter of the locked armies, even by
plugging her ears. Fortunately they were too far away for her to
share their pain, but she heard it. It seemed endless, and she
prayed for it to stop. Her legs grew weary, and she sat down on the
hard, dusty earth, gazing back at the empty town and the blue-grey
sea beyond.

Gulls wheeled and squalled,
swooping down to snatch fish from the waves, unconcerned by the
battle of men ashore. Mord sat in the shade of a house, idly
scratching his hairy hide, the brown leather satchel he always
carried resting beside him. Several times, she glanced around to
make sure Bane was still there, sitting on the stallion like a
statue, gazing out at the raging sea of death before him, where
more and more, the black swamped the Earl's bright colours.

A faint hiss and a thud made her
look around in surprise. Bane reeled atop the demon steed, an arrow
protruding from his chest. Another followed it, hitting his arm,
and the demon steed reared, roaring with rage as one struck it,
consumed in a flash of fire. Bane reached up and gripped the shaft
that protruded from his flesh, but another thudded into his side,
and he released the first with a grunt. His eyes flashed as he
sought his attackers, and three men fled from a nearby wall, their
blue and white uniforms standing out against the brown earth of a
ploughed field. They must have crept along the low wall to get
within arrow shot of the Demon Lord, in a brave and daring attempt
to kill him.

Bane raised an arm, and dark
fire flashed from his fingers, burning the fleeing men to ash
before they had taken three steps. Bane struggled to pull out an
arrow, but it was deeply embedded, its barbs hooked into his flesh.
He slid off the stallion, and Mirra sat frozen with horror as he
walked towards her. Blood poured down his chest and hip, soaking
his shirt. Galvanised by his need, she jumped up and ran to him,
colliding with another and falling with a cry of surprise. Mord
sprawled over her, the pot he carried bouncing from his hands.

Bane sank to one knee, his face
an ashen mask of pain, his eyes ablaze. "Witch! Is this how you
plan to kill me?"

Mirra scrambled to her feet,
anguished that he could think such a thing. Mord grabbed the pot
and sprinted to him, placing it in his hand before scuttling away.
Bane swayed, trying to undo the buttons of his tunic with shaking,
fumbling fingers. Giving up, he ripped the shirt open, exposing the
wound from which the arrow protruded. Fortunately it had not been a
direct hit. The arrowhead was lodged just under his skin, forming a
bluish lump.

Unsheathing his dagger, he cut
into his flesh to release the barb, pulling it out. Blood streamed
from the wound as he dropped the weapon, fumbled the pot open and
scooped up a dollop of the green paste to smear on it. The fire
raced through him, and the fresh rune scars glowed. Mirra shook
herself from the fascination of his brutal self-doctoring and ran
to kneel beside him.

"Let me help you."

"Get away from me!" he snarled,
struggling to reach the wound in his flank, ripping the shirt away
when it hampered him. He dug the dagger into his skin, cutting
again to release the barb.

She flinched at the pain he was
inflicting upon himself. "I can reach better than you."

"Do you really imagine I am
foolish enough to put my life in your hands?"

"Bane, please, I will not hurt
you."

He grimaced as he jerked out the
second arrow, and the runes flared, blackness seeping into his
eyes. "You tried to stop Mord."

"It was an accident! I did not
see him."

Bane rubbed the green paste into
the wound in his flank, then picked up the dagger again. One arrow
remained, deep in the muscle of his arm. He stayed on one knee,
lifting the dagger to cut it out. His hand shook, and he cursed,
frowning with concentration. She winced as he made a savage stab at
the arrowhead, cutting a gash in his skin. More blood flowed as he
dug into his flesh, his teeth bared as he gritted them.

Mirra's eyes burnt at the
terrible pain he caused with his butchery, wishing she could heal
him, pull the arrow painlessly from his flesh, as she had done to
the deer so long ago. Bane grunted, dropped the bloody dagger, and
wrenched the arrow out with a savage twist. He swayed, and she
thought he would collapse, but he put out a hand to hold himself
upright, bowing his head. After a moment he straightened, picked up
the pot of green paste again and anointed the last wound, putting
an end to the bleeding.

"A nice try, girl, but I am not
that easy to kill." He glared at her, clearly angered by his
weakness, which the trembling of the hand that held the pot
betrayed.

"I am not trying to kill you."
Her protest fell on deaf ears as he climbed to his feet and swung
away, tossing the pot to Mord. He turned to survey the battle as if
nothing had happened, but the effort of standing clearly cost him a
lot. Sweat sheened his brow and lines of pain creased the skin
around his eyes. His blood dried on the tattered remnants of his
shirt, and the runes on his chest glowed faintly. Mirra went to
stand next to him.

"I wish you would let me help.
Who would, if you were shot in the back? Everyone is too afraid to
come near you except me."

He turned to look at her. "That
is what you are counting on, is it not?"

"No! What if the arrows had been
poisoned?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes, I
believe you would help me."

Mirra's heart bounded with joy,
then his hand lashed out, sending her sprawling, the pain blocked
by her power.

"Help me into my grave, that is
what you would do, witch," he snarled, his face twisted with
fury.

The pain of his distrust stunned
Mirra. Everyone trusted healers. No healer had ever abused that
honour, so why did he suspect her so? She rose to her feet,
glancing at Mord, who squatted some distance away, clutching the
pot. He even trusted Mord more than her. If the troll had refused
to give him the pot, he would have died.

Mord would not have outlived his
master; that she did not doubt. Fear kept the troll obedient. For
all his terrible powers, the Demon Lord could not heal himself. His
power was destructive, only good magic could heal, and the foul
green paste he used stopped the bleeding only by burning him,
sealing the blood vessels. Even now, as he stood surveying the
battlefield, he swayed slightly. A normal man would have collapsed
from shock and blood loss, but the Demon Lord could not show
weakness, and sheer willpower kept him on his feet.

Becoming aware that the sounds
of battle had faded away, she turned to look at the battlefield,
wincing at the sight that greeted her. Acres of bodies and
groaning, twitching wounded stretched away across the valley. The
remnants of the Earl's army had fled, pursued by Bane's men, but
for a few who walked amongst the torn banners and broken lances,
smashed shields and dying men, dispatching the enemy wounded. Most
of the dark creatures had retreated to the shelter of the buildings
or trees, except for those that lay amongst the wounded.

Hurt by Bane's undeserved wrath,
she longed for the comfort of her only friend, Benton. He could be
lying out there, in need of her help and eager to receive it, as
Bane was not. Picking up her skirts, she ran down the road towards
the carnage.

"Come back here, girl!"

Bane's angry shout followed her
as she raced to the aid of the wounded soldiers lying on the torn
and bloody grass. The first man she came to she healed swiftly,
moving on to the next as he sat up in surprise. None of the Earl's
soldiers survived, but she healed Bane's men, hurrying from one to
another as quickly as she could. There were hundreds of them, and
she despaired at the pain of the ones she had not yet reached. Her
legs grew tired from stepping over bodies and slipping on the
bloody grass, her stomach clenched at the stench and ugliness of
the battle's aftermath.

Some of the wounded required
help, such as pushing spilt intestines back into the gut of their
owner before healing the great sword rent in his belly.
Straightening smashed limbs before healing the bones required a
great deal of strength, although sometimes the soldier was able to
help once she had dulled his pain. She did not find Benton amongst
the wounded, but her heart twisted with pity for the Earl's young
men, some little more than boys, who lay in twisted death, their
glazed eyes staring at her in mute appeal. Their clean-shaven faces
and polished armour set them apart from the dirty, bearded rabble
she healed, and she wished she could heal them too. She blessed
them as she hurried past, her feet covered in blood, the hem of her
robe soaked with it.

The stench of loosened bowels
was terrible, and the metallic tang of blood seeped onto her tongue
from the sweet smell of it in the air. She had healed hundreds by
the time her power waned, and wandered in search of more. A feebly
flapping vampire glared at her and snapped fanged jaws, warning her
away. Already the weak light had split its black hide, and ugly
brown ichor dribbled onto the grass.

A weird with a broken back tried
to drag itself towards the shelter of the trees, growling. A wight
flailed at the ground with useless, spidery wings, its bulging eyes
weeping sticky fluid, its broken legs trapped beneath the body of a
huge, dead grotesque. A grim lay panting on its back, a sword
protruding from its chest, frothy blue ichor bubbling from the
wound. Others succumbed to their wounds and the watery light, but
she avoided them, for only those that were almost dead did not
snarl or spit in her direction.