Demon Lord (24 page)

By the time pale morning light
crept across the land, the keep was silent, wisps of black smoke
rising from some of the windows. Burnt, broken bodies huddled at
the base of the cliff, some partially eaten by the dark creatures,
and the men muttered while they waited. As the first rays of
morning light filtered through the clouds and lighted the snow high
above, Bane emerged, stretching and yawning as if he had slept
soundly all night.

As soon as he turned to frown at
the keep, the drawbridge lowered with a rattle of chains to boom
against the ground, revealing the massive doors open beyond it. The
inside of the drawbridge was cut into steps, forming a steeply
sloping staircase to the doors set into the rock about ten feet off
the ground. A brilliant flame drifted out to halt before the Demon
Lord. It swelled and transformed into the smirking demon.

Bane nodded. "Good. Just in
time."

"What, no thanks?"

"You enjoyed yourself, did you
not?"

"Naturally." The demon's smirk
grew broader.

"Then do not try my patience,
Mealle; one day you will anger me, and then you will be sorry, now
begone!"

The demon vanished in an
implosion of air, leaving a stench of sulphur behind. Bane smiled
at the open keep, his eyes narrowed in the bright morning light,
then gestured to the waiting captains without bothering to look at
them.

"Go, take all you want."

With a roar, the men surged past
the Demon Lord and charged into the castle to claim their loot. The
trolls, rock howlers and goblins remained at their campfires,
eating their breakfast. They were not interested in loot. Red eyes
glowed from the shade of scrubby trees and the nooks and crannies
in the rocks, revealing the hiding places of the dark creatures
that sheltered from the morning sunlight. The vampires and wights,
gorged on meat and blood, had long since re-joined them. Bane
waited until the men had vanished inside before beckoning to Mirra,
who stood clutching her cloak around her. She approached him, and
he waved her towards the keep. At first she could not move, unable
to face the horror within, then realised she would have to enter
the keep in order to pass through the tunnel into the
mountains.

As she stepped through the
cavernous doorway, the sickening stench of burnt flesh and fear
made her recoil with a choked gasp, but Bane shoved her forward.
She walked along the huge, hall-like corridor that led straight
into the mountain, trying to block out the fetor with a hand over
her nose. Many doors led off it, but to her relief no corpses
littered it, and she prayed she would see none.

Mirra's skin crawled at the dry
rustle of bat wings and click of claws as weirds, grotesques and
grims crept through the darkness behind her. Shivers raced down her
spine, and she fought the urge to glance back at the creeping,
snuffling horde that sought the sweet stench of death in the gloom.
Their feast of human flesh, interrupted by the dawn outside, would
continue in the keep's dimness until their appetites were sated.
Bane gripped her arm and pulled her into a side passage.

"Let us go and inspect Mealle's
handiwork," he grated in her ear.

Mirra wanted to run, but knew
she could not break away from him, and even if she did, he would
catch her in a few strides. The headache that Mord's potions no
longer soothed communicated itself to her as they traversed a
glassy-walled passage, its curved floor slightly abraded by time
and traffic. The walls reflected the light of the torches that
burnt in sconces every few feet, but their acrid smoke could not
compete with the stench of death that filled the keep.

Mirra sensed the agony that had
been endured in this place, and was unable to prevent herself from
glancing into the rooms they passed. They had no corners, and the
walls appeared to be slightly concave. Nothing was utterly flat or
perfectly square, although whoever had built this massive castle
had striven to accomplish this. In some places, the rock strata
looked smeared, as if a giant hand had squashed it into shape. Most
of the rooms had no windows, for they were deep in the mountain,
and brightly burning torches filled them with pale golden
light.

Bane went from room to room,
inspecting burnt tapestries and smouldering carpets, singed
furniture and charred ornaments. Mirra gave a choked cry when they
encountered the first corpse, a roasted man, his mouth stretch wide
in his last scream. Bane dragged her into the next room, where
three bodies huddled together under a layer of ash. Ignoring her
horrified expression, he led her onwards, finding more and more
corpses, the sight of which made her faint and nauseous.

Women and children had died in
cupboards and under beds, babies in their cradles or their mother's
arms. Some were little more than ash flaking away from white bones,
others merely looked cooked, and a few appeared to have died of
fright. The shock and horror numbed her, and after a while she
walked beside Bane like an automaton, her eyes dull and
unfocussed.

Bane seemed to become
increasingly furious with her, jerking her arm and shoving her
along before him, sometimes thrusting her close to the bodies.
Silently she wished them a safe journey to the Lady, knowing that
if she said it aloud Bane would slap her. The crashing and shouts
of the looting troops echoed through the castle, and there seemed
no end to the passages and rooms.

Occasionally men scuttled from
their path, but most they did not see. Finally they came to a room
where Mealle had enjoyed some entertainment. Mutilated corpses
littered the floor, obviously tortured at length. Most were burnt
beyond recognition, but one moved and made a soft mewing sound.
Mirra's eyes widened in disbelieving horror as she realised that
the roasted man still breathed in short, bubbling gasps.

His eyes, ears and tongue had
been burnt away, and his body lacked skin, the raw, weeping flesh
glazing in the air. She recoiled, trying to jerk her arm from
Bane's grip, but he held her implacably, his face as hard as the
granite walls.

"Why do you not help him?" he
mocked.

"It would be no mercy. He is
beyond healing."

"You would leave him to
suffer?"

She tried to pry his iron-hard
fingers from her arm. "I can do nothing. He requires the mercy
stroke."

"You mean kill him?"

"Yes, but I cannot do it." The
man's pain made her shiver.

"Why can you not heal him with
your miraculous power?"

"I cannot recreate what has been
lost. I could save him, but he would be without eyes, ears, a
tongue, and skin." Her voice rose, touched with hysteria, and her
struggle became frantic. She looked up into his granite face.
"Please let me go. I cannot bear it."

"Would you like me to kill
him?"

"Please!"

He shook his head. "Then I will
not."

Bane smirked, or tried to, but
he did not look as happy as he usually did when tormenting her.
Mirra gave up the unequal struggle and stood with her back to the
man, her face pale with strain, her eyes haunted. Bane studied her
for a moment as if she was an interesting insect, frowning at some
inner thought.

At last he took her from the
chamber, releasing her arm as though her touch was repugnant to
him. She walked ahead of him in a daze, turning blindly around
corners, at times dragged back and steered down another passage.
She found herself back in the original hall, where some men had
gathered, their clothes and packs heavy with loot. Bane sent a few
scurrying to fetch the rest with a gesture, then left Mirra and
mounted the demon steed. He looked pensive, and rode down the huge
tunnel without a backward glance.

Mirra called the grey horse and
followed at a distance, keeping the Demon Lord just barely in
sight. The demon steed gave off a red glow that lighted the way
like a beacon, and the troops straggled after them, some carrying
torches, jingling with newfound wealth that would only burden them
on the hard march ahead. The trolls, goblins and rock howlers
carried more practical booty; smoked meat and tasty supplies from
the keep's stores, much of which had already found its way into
their copious stomachs. The unburdened dark creatures brought up
the rear, gorged with human meat and blood. The tunnel curved
upwards after a few minutes of travel, and a cold wind blew down
it. Mirra shivered, her eyes burning with unshed tears, both for
the demon's victims, and Bane.

By the time they reached the end
of the tunnel, which opened onto a richly grassed bowl dotted with
pale grey rocks, the sun descended. The men trudged to a flat area,
where they lighted fires and set up camp for the night.

Grey mountains towered all
around them, blocking out the sun's slanting rays and making the
deep bowl dim and cold. On the far side, another tunnel yawned
blackly; the unguarded entrance to the land beyond. Mirra hoped
that some of the keep's inhabitants had escaped through it while
the demon was occupied with its foul entertainment. A small lake
nestled at one end of the bowl, fed by a glittering waterfall.
Miniature trees edged its far shore, clinging to the rock face.

Next to the tunnel they had just
left, shrubs and flowers grew in a little garden, where the
castle's denizens had undoubtedly come to picnic in the sunshine.
She could imagine the soldiers' wives bringing their children here
to play on the grass and swim in the lake. A few cattle grazed in
the bowl, bells tinkling. Some of the men headed towards them, and
she knew they would feast on fresh beef tonight.

A ring of ten-foot tall white
marble dolmens stood next to the lake, joined together by the
blocks of dressed stone that rested across them. Bane rode over to
it and dismounted, and Mirra caught up as he walked into the middle
of the ring, his eyes on the huge altar stone there. Its surface
was chipped and pitted with age, worn from years of use by the
ancient priests who had once worshipped here.

Bane wandered around the ring,
studying the runes carved into the stones, grunting with
disapproval and amusement. "Amateurs," he muttered. "Idiots;
bungling fools. They did not even know what they were doing."

Mirra leant against the inside
of one of the circle's stones, weary and numb after her ordeal in
the keep. Bane muttered as he strolled about, then he approached
and stopped in front of her. She gazed up at him with mild
confusion, wondering what he wanted. He looked up, and she followed
his gaze. There above her, beneath the huge stone block, was the
glowing blue pentagram, and above it, the carved ward.

"Very crafty," Bane said,
studying it. "Break it, and the stone falls."

She lowered her eyes to his
up-tilted visage. "What will you do?"

He shrugged. "Break it."

"But the stone..."

His head snapped down, and he
glared at her. "Get out of my way."

Bane thrust her aside, and she
retreated to a safe distance to watch him. For several minutes he
studied the ward, muttering under his breath, then, apparently
satisfied that he had worked everything out, he positioned himself
under it and raised his arms. Dark fire burst from his fingers and
hammered the glowing blue lines, which resisted destruction for
only a few seconds before they flew apart in a flash of
incandescence. The huge stone cracked down the middle with a
grating report.

Bane threw himself aside, but
the falling rock was faster. It struck the ground with a sickening
thud, pinning his ankle. He gave a choked cry and turned to tug at
his leg, his face twisted with agony. Mirra ran to him without
thinking, drawn by the intensity of his pain, and fell to her knees
beside him, her throat tight with concern.

A glance at his face told her
that he would not let her help him, and there was nothing she could
do anyway. His eyes were pits of darkness, and the fire licked over
him in uncontrolled waves, making her stomach churn. Bane grimaced
as he struggled to master the pain and the fire, then the blackness
drained from his eyes, and he relaxed a little.

Mirra touched his arm, but he
pushed her away. "Get away from me."

"What can I do? Please let me do
something."

"Fetch Mord."

"What about some men to lift the
stone?"

His pale eyes glinted with fury.
"Imbecile! They will not come near me."

"But -"

"I do not need their help. Do as
I say!"

Mirra lifted her skirts and ran
to the camp, where she found Mord erecting Bane's tent and panted
his summons. The troll grabbed the pack and sprinted to the stones,
leaving Mirra gasping in his wake. When she arrived, Mord hid
behind one of the standing stones, clutching the pack and staring
at Bane. The Demon Lord was propped up on one elbow, engulfed in
dark fire, which he directed to lift the massive stone. It rose
from the depression it had made in the ground, and he grimaced as
he pulled his foot out. Letting the stone fall, he slumped onto his
back with a soft groan, extinguishing the black fire. Mord scuttled
nearer, clutching the pot.

Bane held out his hand, and the
troll deposited his burden in it before fleeing to the safety of
the stones. Mirra hurried over to the prone Demon Lord and knelt to
examine his foot, starting to unbuckle his boot. He sat up, cursed,
and shoved her away.

"How many times must I tell you,
idiot!"

Bane glared at her, then bent to
remove his boot, baring his teeth in a silent snarl as he pulled it
off. A deep, oozing gash marred his foot where the stone's weight
had torn his skin. He smeared it with the burning green paste,
ignoring Mirra's whimper, then shouted for Mord to bring him a
cloth. The troll dug in the pack and pulled out what looked like
Bane's torn shirt, which he brought, holding it out at arms' length
and retreating as soon as Bane snatched it from him. Bane tore the
shirt into strips and bound his foot while Mirra watched, longing
to help him. With remarkable disregard for the pain, the Demon Lord
pulled his boot back on and climbed to his feet, hardly touching
the injured foot on the ground, and Mirra's eyes stung in
sympathy.