Demon Lord (7 page)

Bane smirked when he had studied
their futile efforts, his expression contemptuous. He had no need
to tell his captains what to do, but merely sat and watched his men
prepare for the attack. Trolls, armed with double-edged
battle-axes, went into the forest and felled several trees to use
as battering rams. Ten trolls carried each ram, and they led the
attack. They trotted up the road that led to the tall gates, the
rams a slight burden for their strength. The rest of the horde
followed, shouting battle cries and beating their swords on their
shields as they swarmed across the fields like a black tide rising
to engulf the grey-walled village in a foul sea of chanting,
sword-waving death.

The defenders were ill equipped
and untrained, but they fought bravely from the walls. They sent
flights of arrows and spears whistling amongst Bane's motley army,
killing many. When they ran out of spears, they used harpoons, boat
hooks and sharpened stakes. At the wall, they tipped pots of
boiling oil onto the attackers' heads, and many died screaming in
agony, tearing at their steaming clothes. They pulled off parboiled
skin with the garments, and their shrieks made Mirra's skin
crawl.

Bane's army surged back like a
wave rebounding from a cliff, and withdrew to a safe distance to
wait for the gates to be broken down. The trolls battered the doors
with a great booming that echoed across the valley. Many died as
they wielded the rams, despite the shields held over their heads to
ward off the storm of arrows and oil that rained down. As soon as a
troll fell, another took his place from the waiting host, and the
progress of the rams barely faltered. The gates shuddered with
every blow, growing weaker under the barrage, until they swayed,
loosened from their stout iron hinges.

Bane sat on the dragon, smiling
with satisfaction as the gates gave way and swung inward with a
great squeal of tearing wood. His men charged into the town, and a
distant screaming, mingled with the clash of arms and the
attackers' whoops, arose. Soon black smoke poured from the stricken
town, and crammed fishing boats put out to sea, bobbing sluggishly
in the swells.

Mirra was glad some people had
escaped, but they were pitifully few. She prayed that the over
laden boats would reach the next sea town. Already the wind
stretched their sails, and they listed with their burdens. Bane's
men hunted down and slaughtered the people who slipped through
postern gates and fled on foot. The dark creatures that waited
there ambushed those who made it to the dubious safety of the
forest.

The Demon Lord watched from his
vantage, his eyes narrowed against the sun. As soon as the screams
died down, he dismounted and chained the dragon to a tree, then
approached Mirra, who waited with Mord. The troll scuttled away,
dropping her rope. Bane picked it up and yanked her forward,
leading her into the carnage.

Most of the fallen soldiers
outside the walls lay twisted and gaping in death, some bristling
with arrows, others as red as boiled lobsters, streaked with oil. A
few still twitched and groaned, begging for help, others hobbled or
dragged themselves towards the town, where they might find medicine
and bandages.

Mirra's heart bled for their
pain. Her eyes burnt with unshed tears, and she could hardly bear
to look at them. Most, she was certain, would die from their wounds
or remain crippled, and succumb to starvation or fall prey to the
wolves that would come for the carrion. Bane did not spare a glance
for his fallen troops, nor heed their despairing cries for
help.

The hundreds of dead outside
were nothing compared to the number within. Tears of grief and pity
streaked Mirra's cheeks at the savage slaughter of innocents inside
the walls. Children lay strangled, their thin arms outstretched in
helpless supplication. Men and women had been crucified and gutted.
Piles of corpses blocked streets and alleys where defenders had
stood back to back. In the centre of each mound lay the women and
children the village men had been trying to protect. Everything,
even the horses and dogs, had been slaughtered.

Bane laughed at her tears.
"Good! Weep, stupid witch, cry like the weak human you are. Soon
you will perish too."

She swallowed a sob. "Why did
you kill them?"

"Because they are in the way,
and if they are not with me, they are against me."

Bane dragged her along a
deserted street, his boots ringing on the cobbles, his cloak
sweeping behind him. She stumbled after him, sick with horror. A
young woman clutching a baby ran out in front of them, her eyes
wide with panic as she fled some unseen threat. She screamed and
tried to scramble away from Bane, but he leapt after her and
grabbed her long hair, yanking her back.

Dropping Mirra's tether, he drew
his dagger and plunged it into her belly, ripping her open in a
gush of blood. She clutched her baby to her as she died, and Bane
stabbed the child as well, ending its screams as he laughed with
malicious delight. Mirra choked back her cry of horror, and Bane
did not seem to notice her tortured expression as he jerked her
after him down the bloody street.

Bane marched through the town to
a church built from grey stone, trimmed with chalk-white rock
around the windows and roof edges. A trampled garden bordered the
path that led to wooden doors hinged and bound with copper. He
towed her into the pew-crowded interior, where a dead priest
sprawled across the altar, blood pooling under him.

"Where is the ward?" Bane's
voice cracked across the chapel, and the men who were busy looting
the gold and silver from the altar scattered to the walls,
clutching their booty. One pointed to a door at the back of the
church, fastened with a stout iron lock.

"In there, Lord."

Bane ripped it open, splintering
the seasoned oak as if it was balsa. He ducked through the door,
pulling her after him like a dog on a lead. They entered a
wood-panelled room with a stained-glass window that let in shafts
of coloured light to illuminate the pale, tiled floor. A mosaic of
an intricate pentagram patterned the white tiles with deep blue,
and Mirra's spirits rose at the sight of it. A pure power filled
the room, whose sweet tingle caressed her skin like the touch of
cool water. Bane walked around the pentagram, careful not to step
on the lines. Going over to the window, he pulled shut the velvet
curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Glowing blue lines
became visible. A second pentagram hung in the air some three feet
above the design on the floor.

"Aha." He smirked as he studied
the ward. "The work of an amateur, it seems."

Despite his scorn, Bane gazed at
the ward for a while, weighing up its danger. Mirra sensed the
power of the ward magic. A subtle frisson trickled over her skin
from the warm blue light. Its friendly glow made her long to touch
it and revel in the wonderful magic that kept the Overworld safe
from the Black Lord's foul invasion. She knew it would not harm
her, but Bane had no such immunity. The ward brightened at his
proximity, as if sensing the threat to its existence. Bane's
expression betrayed his hatred of it. He saw it only as one of the
locks that held his father trapped in the Underworld.

Mirra shrank into a corner as
his eyes filled with shadows, glowing with evil power. He raised
his hands, and the dark fire spat from his fingers to engulf the
radiant blue lines. A brief, vivid battle ensued, black against
blue, filling the air with an eerie, preternatural light. Power
crackled around the tiny room, making Mirra's hair bristle and her
stomach churn. The lines of blue light flared to an almost blinding
brilliance, forcing her to look away, spots dancing in her
eyes.

The ward magic prevailed against
Bane's dark power, light against shadow, good against evil, pitted
in an unequal struggle until the darkness engulfed the ward. Then
the blue magic seemed to shatter with a sound like tearing cloth.
It vanished in a burst of sparkles and gleams that faded, plunging
the room into darkness. Bane lowered his arms. Sweat sheened his
forehead, and his eyes turned blue again slowly, the whites
bloodshot. He stared down at the mosaic pentagram, then raised a
boot and smashed his heel into it. The delicate tiles shattered,
and the ward was broken.

Its pure essence had vanished
with its pale light, and Mirra shivered as Bane's dark aura chilled
the room. He raised his head and smirked at her.

"One down, six to go. Nothing
can withstand my power."

"But it hurts you."

"That does not matter." He
shrugged. "I do my father's will."

"And then?"

"Do not question me, girl!"

Bane gripped the rope and yanked
her back into the church where the looters hid amongst the
pews.

"The first ward is broken!" he
announced, and a muted cheer went up as he tugged her from the
church, muttering, "Dolts. When my father comes they will all
perish."

Mirra trotted to keep up as he
marched through the town. Screams still echoed along the streets as
people suffered at the hands of his troops. The sound of running
feet could be heard as survivors tried to evade their fate, but the
chases always ended in screams. Bane paused to watch a boy run
along the rooftops, leaping from house to house with amazing
agility. Two rock howlers pursued him, whooping with delight. Mirra
prayed that he would escape, but a tile cracked under his foot and
he slipped, plunging to the street with a sickening thud. The rock
howlers moaned in disappointment, then went off in search of other
entertainment.

Bane grunted and tugged her
forward again. Mirra turned away when he paused to watch terrible
atrocities being performed, the pain making her sick. Churches were
desecrated, the Black Lord's worshippers using their altars as
sacrificial tables. Blood ran like water in the gutters, twisted
bodies clogged the streets and thronged in houses where people had
sheltered. Human troops staggered drunkenly through the streets,
draped with booty and singing raucous songs.

Trolls gathered in muttering
huddles to munch piles of looted meat, uncaring of whether it was
smoked, cooked or raw. Goblins and rock howlers thronged the
rooftops, gibbering with glee. Gnomes, like their human comrades,
gathered in empty inns and drained their cellars. In the deepening
dusk, the dark creatures skulked in the shadows, many crouched over
writhing victims as they fed. Mirra shivered when she passed these
beasts, sensing their hungry, hateful eyes upon her. The town stank
of blood and death, a sickly smell that clogged her throat and
brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

Bane chose an inn to settle in,
and Mord attended him with cowering subservience. Rough tables
stood on a rush-covered floor, some overturned by the struggle that
had taken place here earlier. Once this had been a cosy village
inn, its whitewashed walls hung with cheerful paintings and bright
curtains at the windows. Now it reeked of death, the pale rushes
blood-stained and the curtains ripped. Corpses lay where they had
fallen, their faces stretched with fear and pain.

Bane tied Mirra to a table in
the corner, not bothering to loosen the bonds on her wrists. Mord
brought his master the drug that eased his headache, which had
already started to build behind Bane's eyes. Sweat sheened his
skin, and a deep frown wrinkled his brow as he waited for the troll
to prepare his supper. This was simply a matter of decanting the
foul sludge from the cauldron in which it was transported and
heating it over a fire. She watched him eat, her stomach clenched
with revulsion. Bane did not remove the bodies that littered the
inn, but left them where they lay, unless they got in his way,
whereupon he kicked them aside.

When his duties were done, Mord
vanished. Bane drank from a flagon of wine, celebrating his victory
in silent solitude. This was just one of many victories, and a
minor one at that, for he had not known defeat. This was the first
ward that he had broken, though. His solitary existence saddened
Mirra, who remembered how much fun it was to chat and joke with her
friends at the abbey. Bane sank into an intoxicated stupor, his
eyes growing dull as he mulled over the day. She did not attract
his drunken rage, and he slumped over the table.

Bane dreamt
vividly of the Black Lord in all his dark, fiery glory, his yellow
eyes burning with triumph. A wave of pleasure washed through Bane,
the Black Lord's reward.
The vision behind
him was a smooth red desert glowing under a crimson sun. It
reflected his good mood, flicking out to be replaced by swirling
red and yellow.

The Black Lord spoke in a soft,
deep voice. "Soon we will rule the world, just you and I, son. The
human rabble must be eradicated, and only demons will walk in the
Overworld."

"But Father, they will not like
the bright light up here. I find it hard to bear."

The Black Lord chuckled. "You
think I will leave the world as it is? It will be changed to suit
us, son, never fear.

Bane nodded.

"Why have you not killed that
damned girl?" Black streaks appeared in the swirling
background.

"She will die of thirst within
a few more days."

"Excellent. I am well pleased,
son. Now break the second ward, and I shall be even more pleased
with you." The Black Lord smirked, and the vision brightened as he
relaxed, then faded away.

Bane woke with a pounding
headache and a furry taste in his mouth. Sunlight slanted in
through the torn curtains to dapple the carnage with spots of gold.
Spying a cup of his soothing drug before him on the table, he
slugged it back. The girl slept curled up on the floor, her head
pillowed on a pile of torn curtains. He scowled, an ugly mood
settling on him to accompany the hammering in his head and the sour
bubbling of his gut. She was his prisoner, yet he suffered more
than her. Her bondage barely seemed to trouble her, and she even
slept in his presence.