Demon Lord (31 page)

"This should be
entertaining."

Mirra pitied the doomed men as
they filed into the chasm, their faces drawn with trepidation. All
hoped, she knew, to be amongst the lucky few who survived and might
be rewarded for this day's work. They crunched over the strewn
bones, hefting their long spears, eyes darting. The trolls walked
bent-legged, their axes trailing, while goblins and rock howlers
continued to howl and jabber in excitement.

Grims and weirds flitted through
the shadows amongst the vegetation, wights found shady crannies in
the rock walls. The leaders paused for a brief consultation, then
dispatched some troops along the sides of the canyon to hide
amongst the vegetation, joining their red-eyed comrades. A smaller
group of about fifty men continued up the centre, clutching their
spears in white-knuckled fists. At the far end was a dark area,
partially hidden by trees, which must be the lair.

The men sidled closer, poised
crab-like to flee, and the tension mounted as they neared the cave.
Some fled prematurely, and their jeering comrades called them back.
When they were almost at the entrance, the air reverberated with a
huge hiss. Something silver and gold shot from the cave like a
sudden flood of precious metal. The dragon emerged into the
daylight in a burst of flashing colour, and its beauty awed
Mirra.

Brilliant silver, gold and red
copper gleamed in swirling patterns on a sinuous body that was
still emerging from the cave when the soldiers had fled halfway
down the gorge. Shining gold striped the rich copper head, while
silver rimmed the glaring, slit-pupilled emerald eyes and flaring
red-lined nostrils. A crown of silver spines sprouted between
silver-trimmed ears, continuing down its back in ever-smaller
protrusions that became mere lumps near its tail. The short,
gold-striped legs, tipped with silver claws, propelled the Great
Dragon along the chasm at an amazing speed.

It opened a tooth-lined maw, and
its throat swelled like a bullfrog about to croak. A great gout of
yellow fire seared from its mouth, and the fleeing soldiers died
shrieking, only a few escaping by diving into the scrub on the side
of the canyon. Its beauty and the horror of the soldier’s deaths
transfixed Mirra. The dragon slowed and approached the sprawled
corpses, sniffing them. Its scales flashed in the dull light, and
it filled the chasm like a river of silver, gold, and copper coins
swirled artistically by a frozen current. The chiselled, dished
head lifted and gazed around suspiciously. There was nothing evil
about this animal. It was a natural creature, ancient and wise.

Mirra could not bear to see it
slain, and sent a silent warning in the flute-like dragon tongue.
The beast raised its head and glared at her in arrogant disbelief,
then the troops boiled out of the undergrowth, charging it with
spears poised, daggers raised and axes swinging. The dragon reared,
its long neck arched to look down on its puny attackers. Its throat
swelled, and bright fire razed the troops, killing dozens. Others
reached it, daggers and axes ringing on golden scales, spears
seeking passage between the armour. The dragon spun, spouting fire,
its brilliant eyes darkening as its pupils dilated with fury. More
soldiers died, but others continued to attack, some sliding their
weapons between the scales to draw blood.

Deep crimson stained the
copper-gold scales, and the dragon hissed with rage. It reared up
higher, raising its forefeet off the ground, and men rushed to
attack its exposed belly. The beast dropped, crushing them, and
turned its head to burn more. Trolls swung their huge axes in
mighty blows, clanging against the dragon's metal scales. Rock
howlers swarmed over it like a red pelt, stabbing between the
scales with their daggers. Dark forms sprang, shambled or loped
from the shadows around the chasm to join the fray, and the
vampires took flight. The dragon thrashed and hissed in fury,
throwing off the ugly forms of the dark creatures that clung to it
with sharp claws, tearing at the bright scales with tusks and
teeth, even as they keened and bled in the hated daylight.

Mirra's bile rose and she turned
away, unable to watch anymore. She sensed the dragon's fury, mixed
with confusion and surprise, thankfully too far away to share its
pain. The screams of dying men, trolls and goblins, mingled with
the dragon's hisses and explosions of fire, drifted up from the
ravine. Bane remained on the rim, watching with cold interest.

Mirra dismounted and settled her
back against a tree, silently urging the dragon to flee. At first
only its fury answered her, but as time passed, this changed to
grudging respect. Still it fought on, unwilling to be driven from
its home. The rabble was like ants to it, easily killed, but too
many to slay before they defeated it. Sheer weight of numbers won
victories of sliced hide and torn off scales from unprotected
flanks. It grew desperate, fear overtaking its fury. A Great Dragon
was a formidable beast, capable of defeating large groups of men,
but this one fought an army. Smoke rose from the canyon as it burnt
men and vegetation, its hisses turning to a high whining of
frustration and pain.

Shouts of victory came from the
gorge, and Mirra's eyes stung. With a harsh rasping, a glimmer of
copper-gold slid past through the trees, moving with astonishing
speed. The dragon had fled. Her heart leapt, and she jumped up,
craning to see how badly it was injured, but it vanished in a flash
of silver. Bane urged the demon steed over the rim, and she mounted
the grey horse to hurry after him.

In the chasm, burnt bodies and
crushed, bloody cadavers lay in jumbled piles. Golden scales
glittered amongst them, testifying to the dragon's injuries. Mirra
jumped down and hurried over to those who still twitched and
moaned, eking out her healing amongst so many. The triumphant
soldiers stood about in dazed relief, some nursing wounds or
helping friends to bind theirs. Injured dark creatures crawled
towards the safety of the shadows, black ichor oozing from their
skins. Some merely flapped and kicked, unable to drag themselves
along, but Mirra avoided them.

Bane rode through the carnage,
barely glancing at the fallen men as he headed for the cave. Mirra
hurried amongst the dying, trying to save as many as she could.
More than five hundred men, trolls, goblins and rock howlers would
never rise again, and the sweet stench of burnt flesh sickened her.
The black, twisted bodies of grims, weirds and grotesques evoked
less pity, for these might very well be better off dead. She found
Orran's body under a pile of goblins, half of his chest ripped away
by the dragon's claws.

By the time she finished and
sank down on a rock, exhausted, her power mere dregs, Bane had been
gone for some time. Realising that she was alone and vulnerable to
demon attack, she hurried after him.

The demon steed guarded the cave
entrance, and stepped into her path when she approached. Evidently
Bane had instructed it to let no one enter, and she knew she would
not win past. The demon steed snorted fire at her, and she
retreated, looking about with deep unease for the tell-tale black
circle that heralded a demon. None was in evidence, so she sat on a
rock to wait for Bane. A little further up the ravine, the
victorious soldiers settled down on the bones and opened their
packs to extract wine flagons and dried meat, muttering.

Bane gazed up at the ward,
searching for traps. There seemed to be none, but he hunted for
them all the same. The ward hung innocuously under the cave roof,
its solid symbol carved into the rock above it. He frowned, unable
to find a trap. Surely the mage who had set it had not relied
solely upon the dragon to protect it? The beast was formidable, but
not enough to deter him. He reached up and ran a hand through the
blue fire, which brightened at his proximity and stung his fingers,
but he was still unable to sense the trap.

Of course, the best traps were
undetectable, like the one that had injured him at the standing
stones, and that experience had made him wary. Each ward was
stronger than the last, and each trap had proven more dangerous.
Since the wards had to be broken in the opposite order of their
creation, it stood to reason that this one would be worse than the
last. Slipping a little on the golden-copper scales that littered
the floor, he wandered about, searching the walls, but still found
nothing.

With a scowl of annoyance, he
stopped under the glowing blue pentagram again. He would just have
to take the risk, since the ward had to be broken, whether or not
he could find the trap. His frown deepened. Had the healer not been
there to rub the green paste into the wounds on his back, he might
have bled to death at the standing stones. He shrugged it off,
telling himself that he would have managed somehow. This time he
was alone, however, with no help at hand should he be injured.
Angrily he thrust the thought aside. He did not need anyone's help,
least of all the simpering witch's.

Senses alert, he raised his hand
and summoned his power. It surged through him with the usual ill
feeling as he drew it from his flesh and bones, channelling it into
his hand. Focussing on the ward, he unleashed it in a tightly
concentrated stream that struck the ward and engulfed it like a
dark fist. The ward shimmered, its lines wavering and pulsing.

The ward's strength surprised
Bane, and he was forced to increase his power several times before
it dimmed under the barrage. The glowing lines that comprised it
weakened and separated, then drew back together with amazing
tenacity. It shattered with a flash of brilliant blue light and a
hissing crack, its luminescence vanishing in a shower of bright
sparkles and fading gleams. Bane paused, blinking spots from his
eyes as he waited for the trap to reveal itself. The cave remained
still, except for the steady drip of water further in.

Bane raised his arm again and
smote the carved pentagram with a burst of black power. The symbol
shattered, showering him with bits of rock and dust, then a deep
rumble filled the cave. Bane turned to run as the floor shuddered,
but within three strides he realised he would not make it to the
entrance. The cave's roof crazed with cracks that shot through the
stone with incredible speed, spraying dust and splinters,
accompanied by sharp reports. The giant rocks above him hung poised
for an instant before they plunged downward with a mighty roar.
Bane flung up his arms and shouted a single word of power. The dark
magic surged through him as the rocks hammered him to the
floor.

Mirra turned as a deep rumble
shuddered through the ground, staring in open-mouthed horror at the
cave entrance as it collapsed. A blast of air, laden with stinging
dust, pushed her back, forcing her to close her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them again, the cave was gone. Only a jumble of
fallen rocks, raw from the earth, marked the place where it had
been. Dust billowed around her, and she blinked grit from her eyes
as she stared in disbelief at the wound in the chasm wall, which
bled pebbles that rolled past her feet.

"Bane!"

Mirra ran forward to pull stones
from the immense pile in futile desperation, her eyes stinging with
tears that were not dust inflicted. The demon steed stood immobile,
its silver eyes blazing through the haze of dust. Mirra slumped
against the rocks, sorrow filling her in a black tide. Bane was
gone. She looked around at the troops, who had gathered to stare at
the collapsed cave, murmuring in astonishment. Some scowled at her
as if blaming her for the Demon Lord's demise.

Mirra bowed her head, her relief
that the slaughter of innocents would stop, and two wards still
bound the Black Lord below tempered by an odd emptiness, as if she
had lost something precious. The fact that Bane's suffering was
finally ended brought a little consolation, and she wiped tears
from her dusty cheeks.

The soldiers' alarmed shouts
made her glance up. A black circle formed on the ground in front of
the rubble, spreading outwards with a soft hiss of burning soil.
Mirra stared at it. Could Bane travel like a demon? Would he rise
from the circle? The troops backed away, and her question was
answered as a mud-form thrust up. An earth demon. The soil writhed,
forming six arms, and the demon swelled as it rose. It pushed forth
stony eyes and pinned her with its glare. Yalnebar.

"So, wench, we meet again," the
earth demon grated, its voice like rocks rubbing together.

Mirra clutched at a desperate
hope and waved at the tumbled stones. "The Demon Lord needs your
help. You can get him out!"

Yalnebar laughed, a gravelly
sound. "Bane does not need my help, stupid child."

Mirra sagged as her hope drained
away, leaving her bereft once more. Then he must be dead. She eyed
the demon, remembering the last time it had attacked her. Now that
she did not have the power to heal herself, its first blow would be
fatal.

Yalnebar stepped forward. "I
have come to finish my task."

Mirra backed away, wondering if
she was fleet enough to outrun the ponderous demon. The fiend was
indefatigable, however, and her defiance hopeless. Still, she could
not simply stand there and allow herself to be pounded into the
earth. She would avoid that grisly fate for as long as she could,
no matter how futile it was in the end. As she was about to sprint
away, the demon steed stepped between them, surprising her.
Yalnebar glared at the fiery stallion with flinty eyes.

"He told you to guard her?" The
earth demon sounded incredulous.

Evidently Yalnebar was privy to
Orriss' silent communications. The demon's gritty mouth dropped
open in surprise, then snapped shut in a grim line.

"The Black Lord himself has
ordered her death, Orriss. Get out of my way."