Demon Lord (5 page)

"May the goddess bless you, and
her power heal you through me."

His cold eyes never left her
face as he spoke in a soft, menacing voice. "I doubt that, little
girl."

Mirra laughed, and he winced as
if it hurt his ears. "I am certain that whatever your illness is, I
can help you."

"You were not brought here to
help me."

Mirra stepped closer, which
seemed to surprise him, for his brows rose a fraction. "But I can
stop your pain."

"Really." His eyes glinted.

Mirra reached up to touch his
brow. His skin was cool and satin smooth. He regarded her flatly,
his eyes filled with cruel anticipation. She snatched her hand away
and rubbed it as she retreated a step, uncertain. Her healing
seemed to bounce off him as if a wall blocked it. She sensed a
strangeness deep within him, which confused her. It was as if a
barrier lived just under his skin, and spurned her healing.

His lips twisted into a sneering
smile. "Your magic will not work on me, witch, my father made
certain of that. I am so glad you could join us today. Sport has
been hard to come by lately, and I have missed it." He raised his
head to address the soldiers behind her. "Take her and bind
her!"

As he stepped back, many hands
grabbed her and dragged her towards a large, upright rock. The
strange turn of events confused and alarmed her. The tall man
followed, his shadowy cloak flaring to reveal a crimson lining.

The men bound her to the rock
with rough ropes, forcing her to stand with her back pressed
against it. She looked around for the black-clad man, who watched
her, and wondered what they were going to do. Surely they would not
harm a healer?

When she was lashed to the
stone, he walked closer. The men sidled back, and he stopped before
her, his eyes icy with contempt.

"Now you will see what I do with
witches."

"I am not a witch. I am a
healer."

"Do not talk back, witch."

The man pulled a black-bladed
dagger from his belt, and she watched him with vague disquiet. He
fingered the blade, his eyes raking her as if pondering his next
move, then he raised the weapon and drew it down her cheek in a
swift motion. Mirra gasped in surprise. The cut healed instantly,
without a drop of blood escaping. His eyes narrowed, and he peered
at her cheek, then at the dagger. He cut her again, deeper, with
the same result. Frowning, he turned and held out a hand to the men
behind him, who shrank from it.

"Give me a brand."

A man yanked a piece of burning
wood from the nearest fire and thrust it into her would-be
tormentor's hand, and he swung back to her. He pressed it to her
cheek, but her power healed the burn and blocked the pain. The
smell of charring flesh sickened her, but she knew from childhood
escapades that any injury she received healed instantly. Perhaps he
was ensuring that she really was a healer, she thought. He removed
the brand and scowled at her.

"So, the little witch has real
magic."

"I am a healer."

"Silence!" His hand cracked
across her cheek, snapping her head around. She gazed at him,
wondering what she had done to anger him. He was a little flushed,
and his brows almost met over his nose. Mirra gasped in amazement
as his vivid eyes turned black, and he raised his hands. She sensed
a surge of strange, evil power. Black flames arced from his fingers
and crawled over her like loathsome shadows. Her stomach churned,
and she swallowed the sour sting of bile. Apart from the terrible
nausea, the fire only tingled where it touched.

He snarled and unleashed a lash
that drove her back against the rock, causing her healing to flare
in response. The crowd retreat with fearful moans, and Mirra
flinched from the terrible power he wielded. Lowering his hands, he
let the black fire die. The darkness drained from his eyes as he
glared at her.

"What are you?"

Mirra sagged, relieved that the
sickness had vanished with the fire. "A healer."

He swung away, his face
thunderous. "I will not waste my power on a puling witch-maid. Make
my father happy!" he roared at the crowd. "Torture her! We want to
hear her scream!" He strode away, his back stiff with fury.

The horde closed in on her, and
many dirty hands cut the ropes and pulled her into their midst. She
yelped as knives slashed her robe and sliced her flesh in bloodless
cuts that closed without a trace. Clubs smashed her fingers and
snapped her arms and legs. She was beaten, pummelled, thrown down
and stomped on, spat on, urinated on. They rolled her in the dirt,
broke her ribs with kicks, pierced her eyes with daggers and thrust
burning brands into her skin. They tore out her hair in tufts and
slashed it off with knives, forced excrement into her mouth and
stabbed swords through her gut. The injuries healed instantly and
painlessly, but their severity caused her skin to glow with the
golden power. Through it all, she gave only an occasional grunt
when they knocked the wind out of her.

When they withdrew, she was
smeared with muck, her hair gone, but for tattered clumps, her robe
in rags, and a bad taste in her mouth. She looked up at them with
sad reproach, two tears escaping to trickle down her cheeks as she
fingered the filthy ruin of her hair. The gnomes who had captured
her dragged her to her feet and hauled her to their master's tent.
The troll ducked inside for a moment, and Mirra pulled together the
tattered remnants of her robe in a rather vain attempt at modesty,
since there was hardly enough cloth left to cover her.

The black-clad man emerged and
surveyed her with a grim expression. Pain radiated from him, and
she longed to heal him.

"Is this the best you could do?"
he roared at the gnomes, who scuttled away, to stop at a safe
distance. "I want her dead! Are you so useless that you cannot kill
a simpering maiden? All you have done is dirty her and cut her
hair!" He clasped his brow, wincing, then turned to the troll who
cowered next to the door. "Where is my damned potion?"

The troll held out the cup he
clutched, and the man snatched it from him.

Mirra sensed the foulness of the
brew within it and cried, "Do not drink that!"

He glared at her, his lip
curling. "Why not?"

"It is bad for you!"

He stared at her in undisguised
amazement. "Why should you care?"

"Of course I care. I am a
healer."

"You are mad." He tossed back
the liquid and threw the cup aside. "Tie her up!" he ordered the
gnomes. "I see I will have to deal with her myself. Make sure the
ropes are rough and tight, I want her to suffer." His icy gaze
raked her. "Perhaps she will afford better entertainment than I
thought, since she does not die so easily."

The gnomes dragged her to the
forest's edge and bound her to a tree, the ropes cutting into her
skin. She sagged in her bonds, wondering what was in store for her
next. The situation made no sense. She had done nothing to earn the
wrath of the strange, handsome man, yet he wanted her dead.

Chapter Three

The First Ward

That night, as
Bane tossed in restless sleep on his hard cot, the Black Lord
entered his dreams.
Anger radiated from
his dark, fiery countenance. The seething blackness that Bane's
father preferred, streaked with red and vivid yellow, engulfed
Bane. Occasional glimpses of weird landscapes gave him a little
insight into the workings of the Black Lord's mind, since he
created the vistas. Barren, flat expanses flitted before Bane's
eyes. Some were dotted with stones, others were as smooth and flat
as a table top, and a sickly sun shone through thick clouds with
weak red light. From this, Bane deduced that his father was fairly
calm, which boded well for the meeting. His father's furies were
inclined to be rather overwhelming, and battered his mind with
waves of senseless rage. The scenes came and went, distracting him
until the Black Lord spoke in a booming voice.

"Bane, why did you not kill the
healer?"

Bane turned his gaze upon his
father's face, meeting the blood-red eyes that glowed with dull
venom. The Black Lord's visage was otherwise featureless, a
reflection of his personality, or lack of it.

"I tried, Father."

"Then try harder. She must be
killed."

"She is immune to my power. I
am curious."

His father snarled, "Do not be
curious, boy, kill her!"

"I want to know why the dark
power does not harm her." Bane's eyes were drawn past his father to
a vision of stormy sea. A yellow glow on the horizon lighted huge
black waves crested with bloody spume. The Black Lord's calm was
dwindling, it seemed.

"This is no time for such
foolishness. I tire of waiting while you wander aimlessly about,
satisfying your bloodlust. Use the power and find the wards! Smash
them, then we will share the final victory over those snivelling
humans. And kill that damned girl!"

Bane grew more curious as the
scene in his father's mind changed to a raging inferno that leapt
and writhed with the Black Lord's fury. It puzzled him that his
father thought it so important to kill the witch. She was just
another human female, with an odd immunity to his power. He
intended to find out why that was, then kill her in the torturous
manner he enjoyed. Before he could question his father further, the
dream faded.

The next morning, he thought
about the girl while he ate his breakfast. Her immunity angered
him. She should have burnt, screaming in agony, but instead she had
merely looked uncomfortable, as if she had a mild stomach-ache. The
rabble had proven beyond doubt that physical attack could not harm
her, and the problem of killing her puzzled him. To add to that,
she had feigned concern for him, and lied, claiming to care about
his well-being when he knew full well she wished him dead, like all
the Overworld humans. Her offer of help was intended as an insult,
to make his men think he was weak or sick. He would find out why
his power did not work, and remedy it. Until then, she offered
sport to brighten his days, which made up for the irritation of her
unwanted presence somewhat.

After breakfast he summoned his
captains. They gathered at a respectful distance, their eyes
darting. The lone dark creature, which would carry his orders to
the rest, watched Bane with glowing, hate-filled eyes. It was a
grim, one of the lesser monsters, a bug-eyed horror with a matted
black pelt and thin arms tipped with poisoned, razor claws. Its
demeanour was worshipful, yet a deep, all-encompassing loathing
underscored it. The sunlight obviously caused it pain, for it
squinted, and a sticky ichor oozed from its hide. The others gave
the squat, toad-like creature a wide berth, and not only because of
its nauseating smell. The red fangs that protruded from its mouth
dripped venom that blackened the grass.

Bane ordered the men to search
for the wards, still reluctant to scry for them as his father had
ordered. Scrying used a great deal of power, and the resulting
headache would be excruciating. It meant a delay, however. Bane
would have to wait for the searchers to return, since their absence
would seriously diminished his force. The men left looking
confused. This was the first time he had ordered them to do
anything other than fight. The grim crawled away, trailing its
smell into the shelter of the trees to join its fellows. He watched
the captains gather their men and pass on his instructions. Each
captain represented his own species or tribe, and they set out in
groups that comprised only their own kind. There was no mixing of
the different bands, each preferred the society of their ilk. The
dark creatures remained in the forest's deep shadows. They would
only set out after dusk.

At midday, Bane wandered over to
the tree at the edge of the forest where the girl was tied. She
greeted him with a timid smile filled with all the pathetic
friendliness of a whipped cur. It turned his stomach. Of all the
humans he had encountered, she was undoubtedly the most sickening,
annoying and pathetic.

He sneered, "Enjoying my
hospitality, witch?"

"I am sure this is not meant to
be enjoyable, and it is not."

Bane studied her. Her flaxen
hair was all but gone, filth smeared her, and a foul smell hung
about her. Her ragged robe clung to her slender contours, barely
covering them. Yet the calm serenity in her eyes defied him, told
him not of suffering but mere confusion.

He snarled, "I could leave you
here to rot. Are you too stupid to know fear?"

She regarded him steadily, her
smile fading. Bane swung away and strode back to his tent. Her
composure mocked him. She should be weeping and begging for mercy.
All the humans he had encountered until now had pleaded for their
lives, yet this young girl seemed able to accept her fate calmly,
even when it was obvious a painful death awaited her. She must be
confident that he could not harm her, but he would find ways to
make her suffer. Her pain would bring him satisfaction before he
killed her.

Mirra watched him leave,
wondering why he had tried so hard to hurt her, and now held her
prisoner in this way. The future loomed dark and uncertain, so she
did not dwell on it. Instead she watched the men split up into
ragged squadrons and march off, heading in different directions as
if the army was disbanding. She grew thirstier as the sun moved
across the sky, and was glad that the tree to which she was bound
at least offered some shade. By sunset, only a few hundred men
remained in the meadow, camped on the far side, well away from the
big tent, its lone attendant and solitary occupant.

As darkness fell, a cool wind
sprang up from the east, and its chill touch made her shiver. A
furtive shape flitted through the deepening shadows towards her,
and she peered at it, unsure of what new peril it offered. She made
out a ragged, unwashed soldier, and relaxed, sensing no threat in
him. He shifted uneasily as he stood before her, darting fearful
glances over his shoulder.