Demon Lord (39 page)

Dismounting, he let the demon
steed retreat. Water vapour settled on his skin with a cool,
feather-light touch. Dorel, standing beside him, grimaced at the
falls.

"I'd forgotten how wet this
damned place is."

Bane looked over at the girl,
who sat on the grey horse, both apparently enjoying the falling
mist. Her eyes shone with wonder as she gazed at the waterfall, as
if she found it a thing of great beauty. He looked at it again,
trying to see the wonder of it, but to him it was just a lot of
cold water.

He turned to the droge. "Set up
my tent."

Dorel pouted and walked off,
swinging her hips. Droges were extremely strong; she had none of
the female frailties she had possessed when alive. Bane
contemplated the ward, his eyes constantly straying to the healer,
who had released her horse and stood at the edge, the breeze from
the cascading water ruffling her short hair. He frowned,
remembering when he had thought her weak and pathetic. Now he
realised that she was beautiful, especially when compared to Dorel,
whose outward loveliness masked a dark and savage soul. The spark
of life that burnt within the healer was pure and untarnished, and
if she died her soul would fly to her goddess as a white light like
that of the blue mage on the Isle of Lume, not the dull red glow of
the souls that were sent to the Underworld.

The same dull red light that
glowed only in Dorel's eyes, while the healer's soul was still a
part of her flesh, shining all through her. He tore his eyes from
her and studied the ward again as Dorel's heavy tread approached.
After this, only one more ward remained, then the healer and all
the Overworld's people would be at his father's mercy. This ward
would take a great deal of power to break, more than the last, as
that had taken more than the one before. Still, he could do it. He
had to, for his father. He would endure the pain that followed, for
his father had trained him well.

He looked down at Dorel.
"Prepare Mealle's potion. I will need it when this is over."

The droge flounced off again,
managing to make all her assets bounce. Bane jerked around at a
touch on his elbow. The healer stood there, gazing up at him with
clear eyes so full of sorrow and fear that a pain shot through his
chest. The power of her spell angered him, and he snapped, "What do
you want?"

"Please do not break the ward."
Her voice was almost a whisper, barely audible over the thunder of
the falls. "You condemn an entire world and all its people to a
horrible death."

"Do you think I care?" Bane
sneered. "Why should I feel anything for this world? It is not
mine. My father will make it mine, and his, then it will be worth
living in."

"But it is yours. You were
stolen from your mother when you were born. You are human,
Bane."

Rage bubbled up in him at her
insolence. Anyone else he would have roasted on the spot for such
slander, but her spell protected her. Instead he said, "I will not
listen to any more of your lies, witch. I am my father's son. He
might have given me a human body, but he created my soul. If I am
not his son in flesh, I am in spirit."

Mirra touched his arm, but he
jerked away. "Please listen to me -"

"No. I have listened to you
enough. You stay away from me, and keep your pious opinions to
yourself. I have no wish to hear them. Do you understand?"

Pushing her away, he turned and
strode along the edge of the canyon, his cloak flaring. She gazed
after him, a hand still lifted in a gesture of pleading.

Bane raised his arms and invoked
the power, which rushed through him in a sickening tide. How good
it would be to shuck this body and its frailties when his father
rose. His anger at the girl's suggestions fuelled his longing for
that day, when she would pay for her insolence and lies. Unleashing
the burgeoning fire, he sent it downward, rising on a pillar of
black flame. He drifted out over the yawning abyss, secure in his
ability, the magic thrumming through him.

The rainbow shone in the mist,
shimmering as the vapour swirled through it. Illusive, as rainbows
were, it retreated as he neared, then faded, taking the ward with
it. He turned, finding it behind him, tantalisingly close, yet out
of reach. Again he tried to move closer, and the soft, vivid
colours vanished. He found it again, to the side, but even as he
turned, it faded, leaving only cold, damp mist. Already water dewed
his face and his cloak grew wet. A dull throbbing started in his
head, a mild reminder of the pain to come. Power rushed through
him, holding him in the air, being expended at a terrific rate and
wreaking its unnatural havoc on him as it did so.

Bane swung about again, and the
rainbow slid into his vision, close now, a faint smear of colour.
Raising an arm, he blasted the ward that hung in its glowing arch.
The fire burnt away the mist, and the rainbow vanished. Satisfied,
Bane searched the black cliffs for the solid ward, carved somewhere
in this chasm. As he turned, he found the rainbow glowing beside
him, the ward safe in its shining stripes. Angered, he blasted it
again, burning it away, but as he turned it appeared once more,
hanging unharmed behind him, the ward still there.

It was a trick. Bane's power
ebbed, his stores depleting rapidly and the headache increasing
with every moment, becoming agonising. Air walking required even
more power than rock walking, and he could not maintain it for
long. Already he had been airborne for too long, and he burnt with
the black fire, which drained his strength as it poured forth to
maintain his flight. The rainbow mocked him with its fragile,
indestructible beauty, and he rose towards the edge of the ravine,
the runes on his chest igniting to supply the power he needed,
without which he would plunge to his death on the slippery rocks
below.

Excruciating pain pounded his
temples, and his eyes burnt as if hot pokers resided in them.
Water, mingled with sweat, ran down his skin. Floating over the
rim, he leashed the power and dropped to the ground. His legs
buckled, and he fell to his knees, clasping his throbbing temples.
The strain had been too much, and he burnt all over. Footsteps
approached, then Dorel's hard voice spoke in his ear.

"You didn't break it."

"I know that, imbecile!" He
thrust out an arm, pushing her away. "Where is the potion?"

Dorel placed a cup in his hand,
and he gulped down the familiar sour liquid, almost gagging. Pain
lanced his eyeballs, hammering on the inside of his skull like an
earth demon trying to get out. He sagged, his vision dim, a roaring
in his ears. Not wishing to pass out in the open, where the army
could see him, he forced himself to his feet and staggered towards
the blurry tent. Hands helped him, and he did not care whose they
were, intent only on reaching his bed and collapsing on it. This
major feat he accomplished, then blackness closed in, shutting off
the pain and consigning him to oblivion.

Mirra ran towards Bane when he
fell to his knees, almost recoiling from the lash of his pain, but
stopped before she reached him, unable to bear more. The droge
glared at her with baleful eyes while Bane drank the potion, then
he staggered to his tent, leaning on Dorel. His face was ashen, the
whites of his eyes crimson, and blue shadows marred the skin
beneath them. Mirra stood irresolute, longing to help, but afraid
of the droge who now guarded him.

Berating herself for her
cowardice, she thrust aside the flap and entered the tent. Dorel
rose from Bane's bedside, glaring, but his sickly face riveted
Mirra. He was unconscious, his breathing fast and shallow, blue
veins showing through his pale skin.

"Get out." Dorel stepped towards
her.

"He will die. I must help
him."

"He doesn't need your kind of
help. Your potions will poison him. He needs rest, that's all."

Mirra shook her head, desperate
to get past the droge. "The power is killing him. He cannot use it;
he is human."

Dorel snarled, "I'll tend to
him, human trash. Now get out!"

"Please let me help him."

The droge lunged at Mirra, hit
her in the chest and sent her stumbling backwards out of the tent
to sprawl on the grass. Picking herself up, she stared at the tent,
confused. The woman was amazingly strong. What was she to do? Bane
needed her more than ever, and she needed help, someone whom Dorel
might trust. Turning away, she ran down to the army camp, where
trolls and goblins sat around their fires, playing games or idly
chatting.

"Mord!" Mirra yelled, making all
the trolls turn to look at her. One rose from a nearby fire, and
she hurried over to him. "Mord, you have to help me."

Realising that they stood in the
midst of the camp, she grasped his hairy arm and pulled him aside.
He followed, his mournful face wearing a bewildered expression.

"Mord, I have to give the Demon
Lord a potion. He is sick."

Mord shook his head. "The Demon
Lord sent me away."

"Please, he needs our help."

"That woman dislikes me."

"I know. Just take a cup of
potion to her, and tell her you made it for the Demon Lord. Tell
her he needs it, that it is stronger than the potion she gave him.
Will you?"

The troll shrugged and
nodded.

Her heart buoyant with joy,
Mirra hurried away to scour the rocky slopes for the flowers she
needed, then brewed the medicine at Mord's fire. When it was ready,
she sent him on his errand, following to hide behind a tree and
watch. He scratched on the tent flap, and Dorel appeared, scowling.
The huge troll held out the cup.

"Strong potion, for the Demon
Lord. He needs it, the other one is too weak."

The droge glanced around, then
took the cup and sniffed it, her face twisting. "Filth!"

Dorel flung the cup at Mord, who
retreated, dripping sweet brew. Mirra groaned, sinking down to sit
with her back against the tree. How could she help Bane when she
could not get near him? The only idea that seemed to have any merit
was to wait until the droge was asleep, then sneak in and give Bane
the medicine. Once more she went to gather flowers amongst the
bracken and brew potion as darkness fell.

Mirra waited, fighting off
sleep, while the moon rose and the troll army snored around her.
The trolls camped closest to Bane's tent, a privilege won through
dint of brawn and numbers, consigning the goblins and rock howlers
to less prestigious, more distant campsites. This she had learnt
while playing knucklebones with them, a point of pride, it seemed,
to brave the Demon Lord's proximity.

Mirra fed the fire to ward off
the night chill, listening to the howls of the night creatures as
they hunted. Several times she nodded off, jerking awake as she
slumped. When the full moon reached its zenith, she picked up the
wine skin that contained her potion and crept to the tent, her
breath steaming in the chill air. No sound came from within, and
she hoped the droge was a deep sleeper. Cautiously she pulled the
tent flap open, scanning the darkness. Dorel huddled against the
side of the tent, her chin sunk on her chest, her eyes closed.

With infinite stealth, Mirra
crept into the tent, not daring to breathe. A lamp that hung from a
hook on the tent's central pole threw a pool of light on the bed,
and she gazed down at Bane, her heart aching with pity. Even in the
soft light, he looked ill, his skin ashen and his face gaunt, his
eyes sunken in blue shadows. She bent over him, reaching for the
wine skin's plug.

Something hit her on the side of
the head and sent her staggering back, to bounce off the hard
leather wall and slide out of the flap. She sprawled on the grass
outside, and looked up at the droge's triumphant face as Dorel
stepped out after her.

Dorel said, "We of the
Underworld don't sleep, human dung. We are tireless. Didn't Bane
tell you that, hmmm?" She kicked Mirra, forcing a yelp from her.
With so little power, she had no defence against the droge's blows.
Dorel loomed over her, sneering, "Stupid little witch. You think
you can poison Bane? You think I'll let you?"

Again her foot thudded into
Mirra's ribs, and she cried out, trying to roll away, dazed by the
blow to her head and the speed of events. Dorel came after her,
laughing at her ineffectual attempts to escape the kicks that
pummelled her ribs, buttocks and thighs. The droge gripped the
front of Mirra's robe and dragged her to her feet, her face twisted
with hatred and triumph. Her strong hands closed around Mirra's
throat, and she knew that the droge would kill her if she could.
Without Bane to protect her, Dorel might even succeed where the
demons had failed. With a violent twist, she surprised Dorel and
broke free, staggering away. She stumbled into the forest, tripping
over roots and rocks, branches scratching her and snagging her
robe. Dorel's heavy tread pursued her, crashing through the
undergrowth.

Mirra rebounded off a tree that
loomed out of the darkness and fell, clutching her face. Blood
oozed from her nose, and she sat sobbing with pain and terror,
dazed anew by the collision. Dorel's noisy progress continued
towards her, but she could not summon the strength to run any
further. Hopelessness washed over her, sapping the last of her
energy. Everyone was against her. She had no friends since Benton
and the men had left; no one cared about her. Bane hated her, Dorel
wanted to kill her, and the demons wanted her dead too, at the
Black Lord's behest. She was utterly alone, forlorn and despondent,
weak and drained by her ordeal at Bane's hands. He kept her alive
only to torment her, and would kill her when he could. Anguish and
self-pity swamped her, and she wept.

The droge pushed through the
bushes and smiled at her quarry. "So, human, Bane can't protect you
now. The Black Lord will reward me well for this night's work."