Demon Lord (46 page)

Bane closed his eyes and shook
his head, his expression despairing.

"Do not give up now,” she
pleaded. “We need you. The Overworld needs you. Fight for us, fight
for goodness, and truth, and purity, redeem yourself, avenge
yourself."

He groaned, "Damn you, let me
die."

"No! That is what he wants. You
can beat him. Without you, we are lost, all of us. And you promised
me, you said you would save me."

Bane made a feeble attempt to
rise, but flopped back, muttering curses under his breath. She
cradled his head, stroking his hair until he jerked away with a
growl of annoyance. He closed his eyes, and she waited as the sky
blackened further. Distant lightning illuminated it with garish
flashes, and the almost constant thunder boomed across the land.
Bane lay so still that she kept checking his pulse to make sure he
had not slipped away to the Land of the Dead. The sky grew blacker
still as night fell, the last dregs of light extinguished, the moon
and stars hidden behind thick clouds.

Mirra waited, drooping with
weariness, growing stiff from sitting still on the hard ground. The
wind rose and prodded her with chill fingers; the icy earth sucked
the warmth from her legs. The night seemed interminable, and she
wondered if it would ever end, but at last dawn greyed the clouds,
and Bane woke with a jerk, coughing. He attempted to sit up, and
fell sideways. Mirra tried to help him, but he pulled away,
sprawling again as his limbs failed him.

"Leave me alone."

His voice was stronger, and she
rejoiced. His struggles were painful to watch, but he seemed to
draw strength from them. Soon sweat dewed his skin and he shivered,
but he had levered himself upright, and sat glaring at her.

"See what I have become. A puny,
grovelling human, unable even to stand." His breath rasped in his
throat.

Mirra met his fierce eyes, which
held the helpless defiance of a trapped wolf facing the hunter. Yet
his evil majesty remained, radiating from every line of his
black-garbed body, and the hard contours of his striking, demonic
face. Even though he did not have the strength to stand, he was
still the Demon Lord.

"You can still win," she
murmured. "You still have the power. You just need to get
better."

Bane gave a bitter, husky
chuckle. "I am defeated. The Black Lord has risen, and you were
right, you told the truth. How stupid you must have thought
me."

"No. You could not know. He
raised you, spun you lies. It was all you knew."

Bane's head sagged, wings of
hair falling forward to hide his face. "Let me die."

"I will not. I cannot, any more
than you could have left me to perish, or killed me."

Bane raised his head to study
her, trembling with the effort of sitting up. Mirra rose and
staggered on stiff legs to the tent, where she found his Underworld
food. Lighting a fire with flint and iron, she heated it and took
it to him.

He scowled at her. "Leave me
alone."

"No. You have to eat, and I will
force it down you if I must. It is not good food, but there is
nothing else."

Fury flared in his eyes. "So now
you think you can give me orders?"

"You have not the strength to
fight me. Right now, I am stronger than you." She scooped up a
spoonful and held it poised before his grim mouth. "Open up."

For a moment she thought he
would lash out, and dreaded the tussle that might ensue, but then
he smiled wryly and took the bowl. She plied him with wine, which
he did not object to at all, slugging back copious amounts until
his eyes drooped with intoxication. By the afternoon he had
consumed most of the wine supply, and stared at the fallen ward
while she gathered more herbs for the pain potion and dragonroot
for strength.

When she had finished her tasks
she returned to find him looking stronger, but exceedingly drunk.
His eyes had stopped bleeding, to her relief, but the whites
remained crimson and his lips looked like he had eaten fresh blood.
He was still too weak to walk, so she spent a second night on the
open plains with him, which did not worry Bane. His exhaustion was
so deep that he slept through it, and the wine helped. Mirra curled
up close to him in a blanket, and woke several times, afraid of the
things that crept about in the pitch-blackness, but nothing came
near her.

Morning dawned grim and grey,
black clouds locked together in an endless blanket. After Bane had
eaten, he struggled to his feet, leaning on her, his knees buckling
with every step. She staggered under his weight, and the corruption
in him sickened her. Inside the tent, he sank down on the bed and
stretched out with a sigh. She spread a blanket over him and
removed his boots, wincing at the sight of his swollen, blackened
foot.

Leaving him to rest, she went to
the tent flap and gazed out at the gloomy, brooding sky, wondering
if she would ever see a blue one again. Many questions plagued her,
foremost of which was whether Bane would go up against the Black
Lord and cast him back down into the Underworld. Only he could do
it now. The Lady did not have the power to intervene, and the blue
mages who had set the wards were long since dead. If he refused,
the Overworld was doomed, and all its inhabitants would perish from
starvation when the vegetation died, those that the Black Lord did
not slaughter.

Unless Bane chose to fight him
and won, the Overworld would become a dead world under a pall of
perpetual clouds. Only demons and the dead would inhabit a haunted
wasteland of barren rock and mud. The Black Lord would banish the
rain and allow the soil to become dust, and the wind would blow it
away into the sea. Even the dark creatures would succumb without
sustenance. The fate of the world rested on the shoulders of the
Demon Lord, who hated it.

Although wounded by the dark
power he wielded, scarred by the betrayal of the only being he had
ever trusted and weakened by the seeds of destruction the Black
Lord had sown in him, Bane alone could save the Overworld, with the
help of a powerless healer.

*****

The tale
continues in Book II,
Dark
God
, followed by Book III,
Grey God
, Book
IV,
God Realm
,
and Book V,
Dark Domain
.

About the author

T. C. Southwell was born in Sri
Lanka and moved to the Seychelles when she was a baby. She spent
her formative years exploring the islands – mostly alone.
Naturally, her imagination flourished and she developed a keen love
of other worlds. The family travelled through Europe and Africa
and, after the death of her father, settled in South Africa.

T. C. Southwell has written over
twenty novels and five screenplays. Her hobbies include
motorcycling, horse riding and art, and she earns a living in the
IT industry.

All illustrations and cover
designs by the author.

Visit the Demon Lord blogspot:
http://www.demon-lord-book.blogspot.com

Acknowledgements

Mike Baum and Janet Longman,
former employers, for their support, encouragement, and help. My
mother, without whose financial support I could not have dedicated
myself to writing for ten years. Isabel Cooke, former agent, whose
encouragement and enthusiasm led to many more books being written,
including this one. Suzanne Stephan, former agent, who has helped
me so much over the past six years, and Vanessa Finaughty, good
friend and business partner, for her support, encouragement and
editing skills.

First published in 2006 by
WIZARD PRESS

An imprint of STEPHAN
PHILLIPS

Distributed in southern Africa
by STEPHAN PHILLIPS