Demon Lord (3 page)

When they arrived at a thatched
cottage nestled in a leafy forest glade, it was all Mirra had ever
dreamt of having. It consisted of two rooms and an outhouse, with
white-washed stone walls and a freshly turned vegetable plot at the
back. Nearby, a bubbling spring fed a pool nestled amidst mossy
stones. Ellese inspected it with an air of satisfaction, nodding
and smiling.

Mirra enthused over her new home
while Ellese unpacked her supplies and Tallis lighted a fire,
preparing tea. Ellese smiled at Mirra's delight at the simple
abode, wishing this was nothing more than a routine placement. The
abbeys took in girls with talent and trained them to be healers. A
village that needed a healer applied to an abbey, and were usually
sent a youngster, whom they undertook to house and feed in return
for her services. The lack of a welcoming crowd to greet their new
healer was not normal, however, and the desolation of the nearby
village boded ill for anyone who stayed here. Usually, healers were
highly respected, and in no danger of mistreatment, even from the
likes of robbers and bandits. The simple white robe and silver
necklace marked them, keeping them safe in their solitary
abodes.

Not from Bane and his army,
however. Already, three abbeys had fallen beneath his troops'
tramping feet, and the healers and their pupils had been
slaughtered in terrible ways. The tales of rape, torture and
burnings were enough to turn a healer's blood cold. No one in their
right mind would willingly settle in the path of that fate. Ellese
feared for Mirra, but this was as it had to be. She watched the
girl rearranging the few items of furniture, chattering about her
first customers, and hoped she had done the right thing. She
whispered a prayer to the goddess, begging her protection for this
innocent girl.

That night at dinner, Mirra put
down her spoon and looked at Ellese with an air of determination.
"What is it really, Mother? Why have the people left?"

Ellese sighed, knowing that she
could prevaricate no longer. She had to offer some explanation,
even if it was incomplete. "There is a war, my dear. They flee from
an invading army, trying to find safety."

"Oh." Mirra stared at her spoon.
"I am to heal soldiers, then."

"You must help any who need it.
That is our way."

Mirra nodded and ate her
vegetable stew. This she would accept, Ellese knew, for Mirra had
been taught that none would harm a healer. The gravity of the
situation seemed to sober the girl somewhat, however, and she
finished her dinner in silence.

The next morning, the seeress
and Tallis left after many hugs and kisses. Mirra smiled and waved
in the doorway as the cart rattled away down the road. As soon as
they were out of sight, Tallis gave in to the tears that had been
threatening all morning. Ellese put her arm about her, patting her
back.

"She will be all right, Tallis,
do not weep. The goddess will protect her."

Chapter Two

Son of Darkness

Bane strode through his army,
which camped in a rolling meadow that had once been covered with
wild flowers. Now it was a vast tract of trampled, muddy grass
dotted with cooking fires and tents. The horde stretched from
forest to woodland, split into their ethnic and tribal groups. Wood
smoke fouled the air, along with the stench of the crude trench
latrines on the camp's outskirts. As Bane approached, trolls,
gnomes, men and rock howlers scuttled from his path, opening a
broad swathe before him, like a shoal of fish avoiding a shark.

They were having another
ceremony on the hillock just ahead. Chanting and drumming filled
the misty dawn air. The horizon had lightened only slightly, and
the night chill lingered. His head pounded with the drumming, which
had woken him from a restless sleep and put him in a foul mood. His
long black cloak, lined with crimson satin, swept the ground. The
gold designs on his black tunic glinted in the glow of the many
fires that lighted the ghoulish scene. Shadows seemed to trail him,
and his presence darkened the very air around him. Anger boiled in
him as he reached the knoll. The chanting died away and the drums
fell silent with a discordant thud. He surveyed the scene. A naked
woman was lashed to a boulder, smeared with blood and other bodily
fluids. She had been dead for some time, but that did not prevent
the horde from sporting with her. He gazed around with a sneer, his
eyes hard beneath lowered brows.

"Been having fun?"

Nervous nods answered him. He
strode towards the drummer, who abandoned his crude instruments and
dived into the retreating crowd. No member of the horde would come
within five feet of Bane; they knew him too well. He kicked the
drums, sending them bouncing into the throng with a flat boom.

Bane glared at them, making them
cower further from his ire. His deep voice lashed out like a barbed
whip. "You think my father enjoys these things? Do you think he
listens to your pathetic prayers? What makes you think he will
grant power to a pack of fools raping a dead woman? He has no time
for gobbledegook! He wants blood! Death! Souls to torture!" He
paused to let that sink in, then added, "And you will not disturb
my rest with your infernal racket!"

Dead silence, broken only by the
shuffling of retreating feet and paws, answered him. He swung to
face those behind him, causing them to surge back with gibbers of
terror. "Today, you kill! You drink blood! You torture, maim and
make them suffer! You burn, pillage, loot! That is what he
wants!"

A muted growl of assent greeted
this. Bane flicked a finger at the corpse. "You will not waste your
time with corpses. Use a live woman, or go without! She cannot
suffer, you fools!"

Bane spun, and a dozen gnomes
ran for their lives. Ignoring them, he marched back to his tent, a
full half-league away. Removing his cloak, he flung it across a
chair and unbuttoned his tunic's high collar. The headache beat at
his skull even though the annoying drums had stopped. He groaned as
he sank onto his bed, rubbing his temples in an effort to relieve
the pain. Why did his father allow him to suffer like this? He
cursed and shouted for Mord. The troll entered warily, his twisted
black face a picture of trepidation.

Bane snarled, "Make my potion!
Hurry!"

Mord scuttled out, and Bane
clutched his throbbing head. The headaches had started when he was
sixteen, and had mastered the great arts of magic. The more he used
it, the worse the headache that followed. At first they had been
mild, a mere irritation, but now they annoyed him immensely, making
his life a misery at times. His father, the Black Lord, had been
unsympathetic, blaming it on his weak human body. Maelle, a fire
demon, had given him the drug that soothed it, but warned him not
to take too much. The demon's sly grin had angered Bane, and he had
tested the potion on a human captive before taking it himself. He
knew better than to trust a demon. He tried to take the potion as
little as possible. Only when the pain became unbearable did he
resort to it. He had not used the dark power since yesterday, and
the pain had been building since then.

Mord returned with the infusion,
putting it gingerly on the table before scuttling out again, to
wait within call. Bane slugged back the foul-tasting brew, then
threw the cup out of the tent flap and lay back. His father was
well pleased with his work so far. His visits to Bane's dreams had
been filled with praise and encouragement. The army had grown and
advanced, almost unimpeded by the puny forces sent against it.

The Overworld had no great
monarch to unite it. The land was split between many nobles, barons
and lords, petty kings and princes, each guarding their demesnes
with jealous fervour. Each had called upon their people for an
army, but none had raised one large enough to do more than delay
Bane's march. The battles had been mere entertainment, a
distraction from his true purpose, though he did enjoy them. As
some nobles had fallen, so others had fled, removing their armies
from his path. Now they marched through empty lands, but he would
catch up with the people when they reached the sea, for then there
would be no escape.

Bane thought about the headaches
again. He was sure the things he had been made to eat and drink in
the Underworld had caused them. As a young boy, demons had forced
foul black concoctions down his throat while he gagged, writhing in
their grip. His skin had erupted in sores and pustules shortly
after, and at one point, all his hair had fallen out. It had grown
back, thicker and blacker than before, but he had been angry. For
the most part, his tormentors had ignored his childish tantrums, or
sniggered at them. Demands to see his father had been denied, and
when he had complained to the Black Lord, he had found an
unsympathetic ear. His power was now as great as the Black Lord's,
and he was free to walk the earth, which his father was not until
Bane destroyed the wards. First he had to find them, however, and
so far he had not come across any sign that they even existed.

As the headache ebbed to a more
bearable level, he rose and walked outside, glancing irritably at
the sun, which rose in golden glory, a point of hot white light
that stabbed at his eyes. He was still not used to its brightness.
He preferred the dim, warm caverns of the Underworld, which the
inner fire's lurid glow lighted. Why his father wished to conquer
this awful place was beyond him. He just wanted to go home. He
found the sun too bright, the nights too cold, and revolting water
had fallen from the sky until he had learnt to control the weather.
Banishing the clouds, however, brought out the sun in renewed fury.
Gathering the fleecy white puffballs to block out the hated sun
inevitably led to a drenching. Either way, he could not win, and
now rarely bothered to interfere with the weather other than to
deflect gathering storms.

Bane strolled through the camp,
ignoring the creatures that scrambled from his path, engrossed in
his thoughts. The killing was satisfying, he had to admit. Never
had there been so many victims. The ones brought to the Underworld
had died far too quickly, some before they could be tortured. As he
walked past a clump of trees, his eyes were drawn to a group of
dark creatures around a fire. They sheltered from the sun in the
trees' dimness, hating the bright light even more than he did. He
found their misshapen forms repugnant, yet they were the most
powerful of his followers. They were steeped in the dark power that
filled Gor Troth, the huge cavern that led into the descending
tunnel to the Underworld.

They were unable to open the
World Gate through which he had emerged, however. The power had
twisted them even beyond their original grotesque shapes, yet each
breed retained a semblance of its initial design. They came in a
variety of species, and kept to their bands. Grims, wights and
vampires generally avoided the larger nasties, night crawlers,
grotesques and weirds. No two were exactly alike, some being more
twisted than others, but their deformities did not seem to hamper
them. Many boasted bat wings, but few could fly. They carried no
weapons other than the claws, fangs or spines with which they had
been born, and although the dark power had shaped them, none could
wield it. They growled as they watched him pass, their eyes glowing
in the firelight.

Arriving at the place where his
mount was tethered, he watched some trolls toss meat to it, keeping
well clear of its teeth and talons. The lesser red dragon turned
baleful yellow eyes upon its master, snapping its jaws in his
direction. Armed with a formidable array of teeth, claws and
spines, a dragon, even a small red like this one, was a fearsome
beast. It was flightless, but equipped with powerful legs and a
sinuous body that could move with remarkable speed.

Although not a fire breather, it
was comfortable to ride, and it was also the only Overworld animal
his touch would not kill, he had discovered. When first he had come
across a horse, he had attempted to ride it, but the beast had gone
into a foaming frenzy and collapsed. Irked by this, Bane had
banished all horses from his army, forcing the men to march. He had
captured a dragon instead, and had been well pleased with it. Not
only had it been able to survive his touch, but any who ventured
too close to it died, which suited Bane perfectly.

The dragon's chains clanked as
it lunged at its handlers, snapping at them as they tossed the
meat. It preferred live prey, and would have rather have eaten live
troll than dead human. Feeding it was no problem; a few humans were
killed every day. Dragons did not usually feed that often. They
spent most of their time in slothful basking, but this one, ridden
daily, needed a great deal of food. When enough wards had been
broken, he would be able to summon a demon steed, but until then
the dragon would suffice.

As Bane approached, it cowered,
tugging at the chains. He smiled, enjoying his power. Everything
was afraid of him, and he liked that. No one had dared to touch him
since he had mastered the dark power in the Underworld four years
ago. Then an air demon, Yangarra, had tried to torment him by
sucking the air from his lungs and sniggering as he gasped - the
kind of cruel trick it had played on him for years. A burst of dark
fire had burnt it to ash. He had suffered the headache afterwards,
and his father's wrath, but it had been worth it. His father had
not dared to punish him.

Bane picked up the cruel
headgear that allowed him to control the dragon. Vicious spikes
were attached to a thin chain bridle, and gouged the beast's muzzle
whenever Bane jerked on the reins. He pulled it onto the cowering
beast's head and fastened it so it could not be shaken off. The
trolls shuffled away as he threw the thick woolly skin over the
animal's back and mounted. The dragon writhed, hurt by his touch.
He prodded it with a sharp metal goad, making it lurch forward into
its smooth flowing run with a resentful hiss.