Demon Lord
T C Southwell
Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This book is dedicated to my mother.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One – Daughter of Light
Chapter Two – Son of Darkness
Chapter Three – The First Ward
Chapter Four – Fire Demon
Chapter Five – Earth Demon
Chapter Six – Water Demon
Chapter Seven – The Isle of Lume
Chapter Eight – The Third Ward
Chapter Nine – Air Demon
Chapter Ten – The Fourth Ward
Chapter Eleven – The City
Chapter Twelve – The Old Kingdom
Chapter Thirteen – Revelation
Chapter Fourteen – Sacrifice
Chapter Fifteen – Betrayal
Chapter Sixteen – The Sixth Ward
Chapter Seventeen – The Seventh Ward
Chapter Eighteen – Ascension of the Black Lord
Prologue
The seeress gripped the edge of the glass, her knuckles whitening as her brows drew together over eyes that filled with horror. The acolyte who watched over Elder Mother while she was absorbed in her scrying hurried to her side, frightened by her rigid stance and the pallor that washed the colour from her cheeks.
"What is it, Mother?" she whispered, gripping the seeress' shoulder.
Ellese sat unmoving, her gaze locked on the faraway event visible only to her within the glass. The acolyte glanced at the clear round glass in its simple silver frame, which, for her, held nothing but the bookshelves beyond. She waited, unwilling to disturb Elder Mother's intense concentration. The seeress lowered her hands and drew a deep, shuddering breath, blinking.
"The Black Lord!" Her voice rasped with dread, and her eyes remained glazed. "The evil has finally found a way to enter this world; to break the wards that the ancient wizards set."
The girl stared at the seeress with undisguised terror, her hands bunched in her robe, wringing it. "How?"
"A boy child, born below. He will be sent."
"When will he come?"
Ellese's eyes regained their focus. "Not for a time yet. He still has to grow; to be taught the evil powers and their use. Twenty years, if we are fortunate. Time to prepare ourselves, at least." The acolyte sagged with relief, and Elder Mother said, "Do not look so happy, child, you will still be here." She stood up. "Send a message to all the Elder Mothers. We must have a meeting; we must plan our defence."
The acolyte nodded and hurried out, lifting the flowing skirts of her white healer's robe so they did not hamper her. Ellese crossed her study to stare out of the window, her eyes blind to the midwinter snow that covered the garden in a thick blanket. Gusts eddied falling flakes into swirling patterns, brushing against the windows, sliding down to gather on the ledge. She shivered, but not with cold, for the fire that roared in the hearth warmed the cosy book-lined room with its wooden panelling and thick, woollen maroon curtains.
Her desk occupied the corner opposite the stone fireplace. The glass stood innocuously on it, clear now. Tidily arranged papers filled the desk's corners, and an ink well and writing plumes stood at its centre. The cold light from the windows mingled with the fire's warm glow to illuminate the myriad ancient tomes that filled the bookshelves. The room's cosy normality vanished as she recalled the horrible vision she had just witnessed.
Within the deep, gloomy caverns of the Underworld, a boy child had been born. Magic had formed the great cavern in which the event had taken place eons ago, the rock twisted and warped by the will of the god who had created it. Huge columns of solidified magma upheld the vaulted ceiling of stretched, striated rock, cooled in the midst of its oozing, patterned with smears and blobs. The inner fire shone from cracks in the walls and floor, throwing lurid light in twisted patterns. Fire demons in true form cast sickly green and orange light.
The demons' chanting had all but drowned out the woman's screams as she died on the stone altar, her belly torn open as the Black Lord ripped the baby from her womb. The boy's cries had stopped when the Black Lord inscribed a dark rune upon his head, and his eyes had glazed under the evil power. The Lord of the Underworld had handed the bloody infant to a minion, who wrapped him in a cloth. By then, the child's mother was dead, her blood pooled on the floor.
The infant stood no chance against the Underworld's corruption. He would be warped, moulded as the Black Lord wished, and none could save him from his fate. Ellese's heart twisted with pity when she recalled the tiny child, slick with his mother's blood. He was an innocent babe, doomed to be a helpless pawn in the Black Lord's hands. She had no doubt that he would suffer terribly in the Underworld, but far worse than his horrific birth had been the ritual the Black Lord had performed before he had torn the infant from his mother's womb.
A month later, the abbey's hall filled with old women; elder mothers gathered from the various abbeys all over the land. The pillar-lined, grey stone room had been built as a dining hall, but doubled as a meeting place for the Council of Elders. Sturdy tables and chairs cluttered its polished stone floor, and stained-glass windows allowed streams of sunlight in to brighten it. The tables had been pushed against the walls, and the chairs were arranged into rows where the old ladies sat, facing a polished bur-wood desk.
Acolytes and lesser healers stood near the tables, armed with kettles of brewing tea, buttered scones and pastries. Others dashed in and out with more boiling water or fresh pastries, steaming hot from the kitchen ovens. An air of aged wisdom hung over the multitude of elder mothers. Their eyes were faded and their bodies frail, but they were still sharp of mind and tongue.
The seeress Ellese sat behind the desk and studied the sea of wrinkled faces. It bobbed and weaved like an ocean, accompanied by sniffles, hacking coughs and wheezing breaths as the old women aired their infirmities, illnesses associated with age, which no healing could cure. Young acolytes plied them with cups of milk or tea, balancing trays of pastries as they wound amidst the throng, summoned by snapping fingers and stopped by imperiously outstretched hands. The elder mothers muttered in a low-pitched hum, some discussing the topic on hand, others doubtless just swapping gossip. Ellese sighed and rapped on the desk, drawing all eyes to her, some of which wandered past without pause. The majority of her audience were stern-faced matrons, but a few were truly ancient.
"You know why we are here," she said. "You all know what has happened. I ask you today for your thoughts. What are we going to do about it?" Ellese spoke loudly, for many old ladies held brass trumpets to their ears and leant forward with peevish frowns. She scanned the throng.
A robust, middle-aged woman called, "Rescue the child."
Ellese's lips curved in a bitter smile. "Easier said than done, Merris, considering that he is in the Underworld. Are you volunteering?"
A murmur swept the room, mixed with a few titters. Merris glowered at her grinning neighbour, and many elder mothers muttered to their friends behind withered hands. A wizened crone stood, leaning on a gnarled stick.
"Find a way to bind him when he emerges," she quavered.
Ellese nodded. "A good idea, but what?"
"There must be something." She glanced around. "What is his nature? There must be something that will work."
"He is a human child. The Black Lord cannot break the wards. He is trapped in the Underworld, along with all his foul servants." Ellese fixed the woman with steely grey eyes. "This boy will travel freely to the Overworld, and he will be able to break the wards. The demons will raise him; teach him their ways and prepare him for the day when he will spread his evil over the land and raise armies to lay waste to those who do not bow to him."
The old woman frowned. "He is not possessed?"
Ellese shook her head. "He is worse. They will fill him with their evil power and corrupt his mind with their teachings, yet the power of the wards will not stop him, for he is human."
Another elder mother stood up. "Then he will only be a black mage. What of preparing an army to capture him when he emerges?"
Ellese looked down at the desk, her heart heavy with despair. All the more obvious suggestions would be worthless, and she hated to reject each as it was spoken. "He will wield the power of the Black Lord. No man will be able to stand against him. The foul creatures of the night will worship him and the dark races with follow him. The boy will be invincible by any normal means. When he rises, he will not be a mere black mage." She paused, her hands curling into fists. "He has been born a god."
A hubbub started as the women objected to this sweeping statement, turning to each other for support. A plump, florid-faced woman shouted, "Why call us here, and ask for our help, when there is no solution to this threat?"
Ellese banged on the desk again, subduing the uproar a little. "There is a solution. There has to be, but perhaps we are not capable of thinking of it. I had hoped one of you had been given a vision or dream, some sign from the Lady to guide us."
Silence fell as wrinkled brows furrowed, searching their memories for such a dream, and ancient eyes narrowed and glanced at neighbours. Ellese scanned the assembly with growing desperation. For the last month, she had racked her brains for a solution. Surely one of these wise women knew the answer to this threat? Surely the Lady had given someone a sign, or a vision? The goddess would not abandon them in their hour of need.
A tall, angular woman at the back of the assembly stood, glancing around shyly as all eyes turned to her. A handsome healer with honey-blonde hair, she was the youngest elder mother there, barely out of her twenties. She looked out of place amongst so many grey-heads, and fiddled nervously with her silver healer's necklace.
Ellese smiled with relief and assurance. "Yes, Larris?"
Larris straightened, lifting her chin. "I think I know what we need to do."
Daughter of Light
Mirra sat cross-legged on the grass of the sun-drenched garden, weaving a chain of bright summer flowers. Her slender fingers deftly twined the blossoms together, and the sun burnished her flaxen hair that hung about her face as she bent over her task. Thick dark lashes framed gentle blue-green eyes in a serene, delicately featured face.
Tallis, who sat beside her, picked up her garland and resumed her work with a sigh. This morning, at the celebration for Mirra's sixteenth birthday, she had watched Mirra opening her gifts, wondering how happy she would be if she knew what was in store for her. Everyone knew but Mirra, and that seemed so unfair. The secrecy puzzled her, for surely it would be better if Mirra could prepare for what lay ahead? She looked down at the wreckage she held and sighed again, trying to weave a bright yellow daisy into the disaster.
Ellese gazed down at the girls from her study window, which overlooked the garden in the centre of the abbey. Her eyes burnt with unshed tears as Mirra crowned her friend with the daisy chain. High girlish laughter wafted in through the open window on the warm summer air. How she wished things were different.
The Black Lord's human weapon, Bane, had emerged from the Underworld two years ago, little more than a boy, if the stories about him were true. From the descriptions given by those unfortunate enough to have seen him, he was now about twenty years old, an estimate she knew to be accurate. The moment he had set foot above ground, an army had gathered around him. First to join were the dark creatures that inhabited the entrance to the Underworld, through which Bane had emerged.
The enormous cave, fanged with pillars of rock, gaped at the blasted lands around it from the side of a solitary crag rising unnaturally out of a flat plain far to the north. The cavern was large enough to accommodate two cities within its bounds, and its denizens had built a metropolis of mud and stone that filled almost half of it. Within its dim confines, generations of grims, wights, night crawlers and vampires had lived and died, awaiting the Black Lord's rising.
The dark power that emanated from the Underworld in a foetid exhalation had killed all life for leagues around, and only petrified forests stood sentinel on the barren plains. Any human who had ever dared to set foot in the cavern had been torn apart and devoured. The dark creatures ventured out only at night to hunt, preying on the animals that dwelt beyond the dark power's influence. No human lived within a hundred leagues of the cave, for to do so was certain death.
Now the monsters had braved the sunlight to leave their sanctuary and follow Bane. As he moved away from the cavern, droves of goblins, trolls, rock howlers and gnomes rallied around him, all worshippers of the Black Lord. They had emerged from their underground warrens and mountain caves in droves to enlist, armed with their simple, brutish weapons. Finally, humans had joined his foul mob, swelling its ranks to thousands. Every criminal, vagrant, bandit, mercenary and outcast had flocked to his banner, drawn by the promise of riches and conquest. His army had already conquered several fiefdoms, and, as they did, more joined, some from fear, others from greed, until a huge horde of rabble now marched behind him.
With these, he swept across the Overworld in an unstoppable tide, slaughtering all in his path. Armies fell before his advance like wheat before a scythe, and those that fled were hunted down without mercy. Tales of torture, rape, mutilations and wanton atrocities preceded him; descriptions of his cruelty sickened all who heard them. The stories told of his complete lack of mercy, or any other vaguely human emotion. He revelled in death and destruction and laughed at his hapless victims' suffering. Ruined towns and fields of rotting dead lay strewn in his wake, breeding dread diseases that afflicted the few survivors, who then spread it throughout the land. Whole towns died without ever seeing the Black Lord's army, defeated by the sickness Bane had unleashed.
King Margorah, ruler of the largest kingdom in the Overworld, fought Bane to a bloody standstill in a three-day battle that laid waste to vast tracts of land and two towns. When at last Margorah realised that he faced defeat, countless dead paved his retreating army's path as the dark creatures hunted within his camp each night until he reached his citadel. There, the dead gathered in mounds at the foot of his walls, yet still he refused to accept defeat, determined to fight to the last man. After five days, Bane grew bored and razed the fortress with black fire, killing all within with a single stroke of power.
Lesser rulers, barons and lords, fell to the rag-tag horde in a few hours, overrun by sheer numbers. Although Bane's army dwindled with each encounter, it soon swelled again with fresh worshippers and fortune-seekers. Towns in his path were abandoned as their residents fled in a desperate bid to save themselves. All mankind feared the coming of Bane, whose name was whispered with deep loathing and dread.
For weeks now, the roads past the abbey had been clogged with fleeing people carrying bundles on their backs and children on their hips, driving their few livestock before them. The more affluent rode in wagons or carriages; wealthy ladies whose husbands had sent them away to doubtful safety, servants and flunkies dancing attendance. Their lordly spouses remained to gird their armies for futile war, grist to Bane's mill of unending bloodlust. All would flee until they reached the sea, then there would be nowhere to go. As they huddled in the coastal towns, the Underworld's army marched closer, bringing with it the death their flight had only delayed. Doom had settled over the land like a dull miasma, belying the bright spring days that should have been joyous.
Bane's army was just a hundred miles from the abbey now, and Ellese knew the time had come for Mirra to fulfil her destiny. She had been raised within the abbey's protection, and knew nothing of Bane. Sheltered from the world's wickedness and taught only of its beauties, she had grown up a happy, laughing child, innocent in a profound manner that sometimes made her seem simple, until a person gazed deep into her eyes and found the utter serenity there.
Ellese watched Tallis present Mirra with a lopsided garland, then they jumped up and ran into the abbey, trailing giggles. She turned away with a sigh. She had never doubted Larris' vision, but, as the tales of horror reached her, she worried. Still, she could not put it off any longer. Tomorrow; it had to be done tomorrow.
The silence that greeted her in the breakfast hall the next morning surprised Mirra. A sense of doom hung in the air, and her smile faded as she headed for her seat beside Tallis. Many acolytes sent her timid smiles, their eyes sliding away. Her friend was intent on her porridge, and Mirra spooned hers with keen appetite.
"Why is everyone so quiet today?"
Tallis looked around shrugged. "You are to see Elder Mother after breakfast."
"What about?"
"Ask Elder Mother."
When she finished breakfast, Mirra ran to Ellese's study, bouncing in with a grin as Ellese turned from the window. The sadness in the seeress' eyes stopped Mirra's rush to hug her, and she advanced slowly, her expression becoming solemn.
"What is wrong with everyone?"
"We are all a little sad."
"Why?"
Ellese sighed. "Because today you must leave us and go out into the world. You are sixteen now, and I know normally girls leave at eighteen, but you are ready. It is time."
Mirra's eyes sparkled. "How wonderful! Why is everyone sad?"
"Because we will miss you, of course."
"I shall miss you all too, but I have always wanted to see the world."
"And so you shall, my dear." Ellese became brisk. "So, when you have packed, the cart will be waiting to take you to your new home. We have a lovely place in the woods for you."
"Thank you, Mother!" Mirra flung her arms around the old seeress' neck and kissed her on the cheek. Ellese patted the girl's back, appearing sadder than Mirra thought necessary at her leaving.
"Now, now, child." Ellese disentangled herself. "Go and get ready."
Mirra skipped along bright corridors to the grey cell that had been her home for sixteen years. It seemed poky and uninviting now that her mind was filled with visions of a little thatched cottage nestled in a forest glade. She packed her few possessions into a worn leather bag, and, with a last look around at the drab chamber, ran to tell Tallis. She found her friend in the vegetable garden behind the abbey, pulling weeds from orderly cabbage rows. Flowering fruit trees hemmed the garden and filled the warm air with their heady scent. Birdsong offset the dull rumble of wagon wheels on the road.
Mirra pounced on her friend, laughing with childish glee. "I am leaving, Tallis! Is it not wonderful? I am to have my very own house, in the woods, just as I have always wanted!"
Tallis hugged her back, her soft brown eyes a little moist. "That is... wonderful, Mir."
Mirra hardly noticed her friend's sadness; she was too excited at the prospect of becoming a true healer. She bounced around, avoiding the plump cabbage heads. "In two years your turn will come. It will be marvellous! I shall heal sick people, and animals too!"
Tallis looked down at the wilting weeds she held. "Yes, you are so good at it. I will never be as good as you."
"Nonsense, you are just as good as me, and much better at cooking and sewing!"
They looked up at the sound of footsteps, to find Ellese approaching. The grey-haired seeress seemed to have aged in the last day, and her smile was tired.
"All ready, Mirra?"
"Yes!" She picked up her bag. "Can Tal come with us, just to see?"
Ellese inclined her head. "Of course she may if she wishes."
Mirra turned to Tallis, who smiled and nodded.
The retired plough horse pulled the wagon beside the clogged road, his iron-shod feet setting up a dull clopping. The people who thronged the road walked in grim silence, their eyes scared and despairing. They pushed barrows piled high with their possessions and drove bellowing livestock before them. The rumble of wheels mingled with dogs' yapping and the wails of tired children who stumbled amongst the trudging people.
Mirra smiled and waved, and a few peasants responded half-heartedly. The desolation in their eyes and the misery that hung over the throng puzzled the young healer. Dust clung to the people's sweat-streaked faces, and drovers goaded footsore oxen that bawled in protest. Some had pulled off the road to huddle around campfires, warming food for hungry children and resting exhausted beasts. Mirra sensed their fatigue in her bones, and a frown wrinkled her brow.
She turned to Ellese. "Where do they all go, Mother? Why are they so sad?"
Ellese glanced away. "They go to the sea."
"Whatever for? They are all so tired."
"To feed the fishes," Tallis said, and the seeress shot her sharp, warning glance.
"Because they must," Elder Mother stated, her tone discouraging further enquiry on the subject.
Mirra thought about that, then shrugged it off. Elder Mother's terse reply did not answer her question, but Ellese must have her reasons. Mirra did not have a questioning nature; hers was too serene for that. Accepting things on face value was her way, and she never expected people to lie to her. She trusted Elder Mother implicitly, and if Ellese did not wish her to know, then she was content to remain ignorant.
Instead, she gazed around at the meadows and shady woodland. The carolling of birds in the hedgerows was audible over the steady rumble of wagon wheels and tramp of feet. The lush countryside basked beneath a warm blue sky in peaceful splendour, abuzz with busy insects and flitting birds. In some fields, placid cattle grazed, their bells clanking as they munched the grass. By contrast, the winding road clogged with human misery made a dismal outlook, and she wondered afresh why these people chose to make such an arduous journey to the sea when they should be planting the season's crops and tending their farms.
Over the next three days, the throngs dwindled until the trio of healers encountered only a few footsore stragglers following the churned, dung-spattered road. Beside it, crops ripened unattended in the fields and ploughs lay abandoned on the rich earth as if the farmer had simply unhitched his team and walked off, leaving the valuable implements to rust. In empty towns, litter clogged the gutters, collapsed stalls spilt rotting fruit into the roads, and smashed pottery crunched under the cart's wheels. Precious, but useless items lay strewn amongst the rubbish. Children's toys, cheap baubles and ornaments had apparently been cast aside to lighten the loads people carried. Clearly this had been an exodus, and Mirra wondered who she would heal if everyone had left, but presumably they would be back, otherwise Elder Mother would not have brought her here. Ravens and crows gathered on the rooftops, raucous spectators to mankind's downfall.
"Why has everyone left in such a hurry, Mother?" Mirra asked.
Ellese shook her head. "You will find out soon."
Tallis' eyes were haunted as she gazed at the empty houses, where dry washing flapped forlornly on the lines. Mirra wondered why this strange exodus was such a secret, especially since Ellese and Tallis seemed to know what had happened. She found their reticence a trifle vexing, and the situation somewhat disturbing, spoiling her happiness.
When they arrived at a thatched cottage nestled in a leafy forest glade, it was all Mirra had ever dreamt of having. It consisted of two rooms and an outhouse, with white-washed stone walls and a freshly turned vegetable plot at the back. Nearby, a bubbling spring fed a pool nestled amidst mossy stones. Ellese inspected it with an air of satisfaction, nodding and smiling.
Mirra enthused over her new home while Ellese unpacked her supplies and Tallis lighted a fire, preparing tea. Ellese smiled at Mirra's delight at the simple abode, wishing this was nothing more than a routine placement. The abbeys took in girls with talent and trained them to be healers. A village that needed a healer applied to an abbey, and were usually sent a youngster, whom they undertook to house and feed in return for her services. The lack of a welcoming crowd to greet their new healer was not normal, however, and the desolation of the nearby village boded ill for anyone who stayed here. Usually, healers were highly respected, and in no danger of mistreatment, even from the likes of robbers and bandits. The simple white robe and silver necklace marked them, keeping them safe in their solitary abodes.
Not from Bane and his army, however. Already, three abbeys had fallen beneath his troops' tramping feet, and the healers and their pupils had been slaughtered in terrible ways. The tales of rape, torture and burnings were enough to turn a healer's blood cold. No one in their right mind would willingly settle in the path of that fate. Ellese feared for Mirra, but this was as it had to be. She watched the girl rearranging the few items of furniture, chattering about her first customers, and hoped she had done the right thing. She whispered a prayer to the goddess, begging her protection for this innocent girl.
That night at dinner, Mirra put down her spoon and looked at Ellese with an air of determination. "What is it really, Mother? Why have the people left?"
Ellese sighed, knowing that she could prevaricate no longer. She had to offer some explanation, even if it was incomplete. "There is a war, my dear. They flee from an invading army, trying to find safety."
"Oh." Mirra stared at her spoon. "I am to heal soldiers, then."
"You must help any who need it. That is our way."
Mirra nodded and ate her vegetable stew. This she would accept, Ellese knew, for Mirra had been taught that none would harm a healer. The gravity of the situation seemed to sober the girl somewhat, however, and she finished her dinner in silence.
The next morning, the seeress and Tallis left after many hugs and kisses. Mirra smiled and waved in the doorway as the cart rattled away down the road. As soon as they were out of sight, Tallis gave in to the tears that had been threatening all morning. Ellese put her arm about her, patting her back.
"She will be all right, Tallis, do not weep. The goddess will protect her."
Son of Darkness
Bane strode through his army, which camped in a rolling meadow that had once been covered with wild flowers. Now it was a vast tract of trampled, muddy grass dotted with cooking fires and tents. The horde stretched from forest to woodland, split into their ethnic and tribal groups. Wood smoke fouled the air, along with the stench of the crude trench latrines on the camp's outskirts. As Bane approached, trolls, gnomes, men and rock howlers scuttled from his path, opening a broad swathe before him, like a shoal of fish avoiding a shark.
They were having another ceremony on the hillock just ahead. Chanting and drumming filled the misty dawn air. The horizon had lightened only slightly, and the night chill lingered. His head pounded with the drumming, which had woken him from a restless sleep and put him in a foul mood. His long black cloak, lined with crimson satin, swept the ground. The gold designs on his black tunic glinted in the glow of the many fires that lighted the ghoulish scene. Shadows seemed to trail him, and his presence darkened the very air around him. Anger boiled in him as he reached the knoll. The chanting died away and the drums fell silent with a discordant thud. He surveyed the scene. A naked woman was lashed to a boulder, smeared with blood and other bodily fluids. She had been dead for some time, but that did not prevent the horde from sporting with her. He gazed around with a sneer, his eyes hard beneath lowered brows.
"Been having fun?"
Nervous nods answered him. He strode towards the drummer, who abandoned his crude instruments and dived into the retreating crowd. No member of the horde would come within five feet of Bane; they knew him too well. He kicked the drums, sending them bouncing into the throng with a flat boom.
Bane glared at them, making them cower further from his ire. His deep voice lashed out like a barbed whip. "You think my father enjoys these things? Do you think he listens to your pathetic prayers? What makes you think he will grant power to a pack of fools raping a dead woman? He has no time for gobbledegook! He wants blood! Death! Souls to torture!" He paused to let that sink in, then added, "And you will not disturb my rest with your infernal racket!"
Dead silence, broken only by the shuffling of retreating feet and paws, answered him. He swung to face those behind him, causing them to surge back with gibbers of terror. "Today, you kill! You drink blood! You torture, maim and make them suffer! You burn, pillage, loot! That is what he wants!"
A muted growl of assent greeted this. Bane flicked a finger at the corpse. "You will not waste your time with corpses. Use a live woman, or go without! She cannot suffer, you fools!"
Bane spun, and a dozen gnomes ran for their lives. Ignoring them, he marched back to his tent, a full half-league away. Removing his cloak, he flung it across a chair and unbuttoned his tunic's high collar. The headache beat at his skull even though the annoying drums had stopped. He groaned as he sank onto his bed, rubbing his temples in an effort to relieve the pain. Why did his father allow him to suffer like this? He cursed and shouted for Mord. The troll entered warily, his twisted black face a picture of trepidation.
Bane snarled, "Make my potion! Hurry!"
Mord scuttled out, and Bane clutched his throbbing head. The headaches had started when he was sixteen, and had mastered the great arts of magic. The more he used it, the worse the headache that followed. At first they had been mild, a mere irritation, but now they annoyed him immensely, making his life a misery at times. His father, the Black Lord, had been unsympathetic, blaming it on his weak human body. Maelle, a fire demon, had given him the drug that soothed it, but warned him not to take too much. The demon's sly grin had angered Bane, and he had tested the potion on a human captive before taking it himself. He knew better than to trust a demon. He tried to take the potion as little as possible. Only when the pain became unbearable did he resort to it. He had not used the dark power since yesterday, and the pain had been building since then.
Mord returned with the infusion, putting it gingerly on the table before scuttling out again, to wait within call. Bane slugged back the foul-tasting brew, then threw the cup out of the tent flap and lay back. His father was well pleased with his work so far. His visits to Bane's dreams had been filled with praise and encouragement. The army had grown and advanced, almost unimpeded by the puny forces sent against it.
The Overworld had no great monarch to unite it. The land was split between many nobles, barons and lords, petty kings and princes, each guarding their demesnes with jealous fervour. Each had called upon their people for an army, but none had raised one large enough to do more than delay Bane's march. The battles had been mere entertainment, a distraction from his true purpose, though he did enjoy them. As some nobles had fallen, so others had fled, removing their armies from his path. Now they marched through empty lands, but he would catch up with the people when they reached the sea, for then there would be no escape.
Bane thought about the headaches again. He was sure the things he had been made to eat and drink in the Underworld had caused them. As a young boy, demons had forced foul black concoctions down his throat while he gagged, writhing in their grip. His skin had erupted in sores and pustules shortly after, and at one point, all his hair had fallen out. It had grown back, thicker and blacker than before, but he had been angry. For the most part, his tormentors had ignored his childish tantrums, or sniggered at them. Demands to see his father had been denied, and when he had complained to the Black Lord, he had found an unsympathetic ear. His power was now as great as the Black Lord's, and he was free to walk the earth, which his father was not until Bane destroyed the wards. First he had to find them, however, and so far he had not come across any sign that they even existed.
As the headache ebbed to a more bearable level, he rose and walked outside, glancing irritably at the sun, which rose in golden glory, a point of hot white light that stabbed at his eyes. He was still not used to its brightness. He preferred the dim, warm caverns of the Underworld, which the inner fire's lurid glow lighted. Why his father wished to conquer this awful place was beyond him. He just wanted to go home. He found the sun too bright, the nights too cold, and revolting water had fallen from the sky until he had learnt to control the weather. Banishing the clouds, however, brought out the sun in renewed fury. Gathering the fleecy white puffballs to block out the hated sun inevitably led to a drenching. Either way, he could not win, and now rarely bothered to interfere with the weather other than to deflect gathering storms.
Bane strolled through the camp, ignoring the creatures that scrambled from his path, engrossed in his thoughts. The killing was satisfying, he had to admit. Never had there been so many victims. The ones brought to the Underworld had died far too quickly, some before they could be tortured. As he walked past a clump of trees, his eyes were drawn to a group of dark creatures around a fire. They sheltered from the sun in the trees' dimness, hating the bright light even more than he did. He found their misshapen forms repugnant, yet they were the most powerful of his followers. They were steeped in the dark power that filled Gor Troth, the huge cavern that led into the descending tunnel to the Underworld.
They were unable to open the World Gate through which he had emerged, however. The power had twisted them even beyond their original grotesque shapes, yet each breed retained a semblance of its initial design. They came in a variety of species, and kept to their bands. Grims, wights and vampires generally avoided the larger nasties, night crawlers, grotesques and weirds. No two were exactly alike, some being more twisted than others, but their deformities did not seem to hamper them. Many boasted bat wings, but few could fly. They carried no weapons other than the claws, fangs or spines with which they had been born, and although the dark power had shaped them, none could wield it. They growled as they watched him pass, their eyes glowing in the firelight.
Arriving at the place where his mount was tethered, he watched some trolls toss meat to it, keeping well clear of its teeth and talons. The lesser red dragon turned baleful yellow eyes upon its master, snapping its jaws in his direction. Armed with a formidable array of teeth, claws and spines, a dragon, even a small red like this one, was a fearsome beast. It was flightless, but equipped with powerful legs and a sinuous body that could move with remarkable speed.
Although not a fire breather, it was comfortable to ride, and it was also the only Overworld animal his touch would not kill, he had discovered. When first he had come across a horse, he had attempted to ride it, but the beast had gone into a foaming frenzy and collapsed. Irked by this, Bane had banished all horses from his army, forcing the men to march. He had captured a dragon instead, and had been well pleased with it. Not only had it been able to survive his touch, but any who ventured too close to it died, which suited Bane perfectly.
The dragon's chains clanked as it lunged at its handlers, snapping at them as they tossed the meat. It preferred live prey, and would have rather have eaten live troll than dead human. Feeding it was no problem; a few humans were killed every day. Dragons did not usually feed that often. They spent most of their time in slothful basking, but this one, ridden daily, needed a great deal of food. When enough wards had been broken, he would be able to summon a demon steed, but until then the dragon would suffice.
As Bane approached, it cowered, tugging at the chains. He smiled, enjoying his power. Everything was afraid of him, and he liked that. No one had dared to touch him since he had mastered the dark power in the Underworld four years ago. Then an air demon, Yangarra, had tried to torment him by sucking the air from his lungs and sniggering as he gasped - the kind of cruel trick it had played on him for years. A burst of dark fire had burnt it to ash. He had suffered the headache afterwards, and his father's wrath, but it had been worth it. His father had not dared to punish him.
Bane picked up the cruel headgear that allowed him to control the dragon. Vicious spikes were attached to a thin chain bridle, and gouged the beast's muzzle whenever Bane jerked on the reins. He pulled it onto the cowering beast's head and fastened it so it could not be shaken off. The trolls shuffled away as he threw the thick woolly skin over the animal's back and mounted. The dragon writhed, hurt by his touch. He prodded it with a sharp metal goad, making it lurch forward into its smooth flowing run with a resentful hiss.
The army followed him through the next valley and into a town at its far end. Only a few aged livestock and an old man who died of fright when he saw the first troll inhabited it. Although expected, Bane found the Overworld people's cowardice annoying. It robbed him of his daily entertainment. The troops took some enjoyment in setting the village alight, but Bane found little satisfaction in that.
Leaving the town to burn, he led them down the road a few leagues before he stopped and turned to survey them with narrowed eyes, searching for a bold look or a defiant air amongst them. If he could find fault with one of them, he could devise a painful punishment for his amusement. The men cowered, giving him no excuse for such an action, and he snorted in annoyance. If he tortured one of them for no reason, they would leave, and he did not relish the prospect of doing everything himself. He turned and led them onwards. There had to be some old, weak, sick or injured stragglers that could provide sport for the evening.
By the end of the day, a group of trolls had found only one child lost in the woods, but had torn him apart in their eagerness. When Bane found out about this, he had them whipped for cheating him of his evening's entertainment. That provided some small measure of the amusement he craved, although it was not as satisfying as torturing an innocent. He was tempted to scry, but that used the dark power, and would bring back the headache.
By the time they camped for the night, Bane's mood had turned ugly, and he kicked Mord when the troll brought his supper. The food, a reddish concoction sent from the Underworld, was his only sustenance. He pondered it as he ate, ignoring its bitter taste. As an Underworld creature, Overworld food would be poison to him, his father had said. The Black Lord was naturally concerned for his son's health, although Bane was unsure how Overworld food could poison him when he was so powerful. His father seldom explained things, however. He simply expected obedience.
Like making Bane hate women. He must have had a reason, but he had never told Bane what it was. Instead, he had filled his son's head with terrible stories about witches and evil women since he had been old enough to understand them. Then, when Bane was fifteen, the Black Lord had captured a pretty girl and brought her to the Underworld. She had begged Bane for mercy, since he was the only creature there who even resembled a human. Every time he had looked at her, his father had grown angry, accusing him of weakness and sentiment. At first, she had fascinated him, but his father's mockery and the demons' baiting had made him hate her, and his father had ordered him to kill her.
Up here, he had come across many women, and found that they died as easily as men. None lived up to the stories his father had told him. Not even the healers in the abbeys. They had been the easiest to kill, for they did not even try to flee. He never doubted his father, but many things had confused him over the years.
Like all the painful ceremonies he had been forced to undergo, which the Black Lord had told him were to give him the ability to wield the dark power. Demons had cut him, collected his blood, mixed it with potions and fed it to him. Bane had vomited for days, and his father had railed at his weakness. This had confused him, for no one else in the Underworld had blood, or underwent the ceremonies. When he had questioned his father, the Black Lord explained that he had been created a certain way, so he could go to the Overworld and break the wards.
Bane flung the empty bowl out of the tent and lay down, stretching out on the hard cot. His lithe, powerful physique was also a gift from the Black Lord. Bane had undergone years of forced labour; useless, strenuous tasks that made his body bulge in odd places. True, he was strong, but he had hated the labour. He had broken rocks and dug new tunnels, which his father could create with a flick of his hand, while demons watched and sniggered as he sweated. That had stopped when he mastered the dark power. He smiled. His father had been pleased with him when at last he had been able to wield the power. After he had destroyed Yangarra, the demons ceased to torment him, and life had been good. Still pondering, he fell asleep.
Mirra dug in the vegetable garden, taking care not to harm any of the fat earthworms she found there. She had seen no one in two days. That did not surprise her, although she had expected some wounded soldiers and was disappointed that none had come her way. The deer came at her call, but seemed more nervous than usual. They stayed only long enough to snatch the sweet bread she gave them before vanishing into the woods once more.
Birds answered the call of spring, raising chicks in scruffy nests and tree holes, filling the woodland with their lilting song. Her only patient had been a starling with a broken wing. A mere moment's work, although still satisfying. The squirrels brought her nuts and a badger left tender roots outside her door each night as tokens of their friendship. For someone who had grown up in a crowded abbey, however, the peaceful forest was a lonely place.
Mirra looked up at a flash of movement amongst the trees, hope buoying her heart. A young hind limped from the woods, her eyes wide and fearful, and Mirra hurried over to her. The deer trembled and panted as Mirra examined her, and the animal's pain tingled through her. Mirra gasped when she found the black arrow that protruded from the doe's haunch, and raised a hand to her mouth in shock. The infliction of such pain upon an innocent animal horrified her, and she realised that the purpose of the shaft had been to kill the doe. She had never heard of such a thing, since the healers ate no meat. She could not fathom the reason for killing such a beautiful creature.
Mirra still had much to learn about the world, however, so she set aside her dismay for now, certain that some logical explanation would be forthcoming in the future. Her healing power flowed as she pulled the arrow painlessly from the wound, which closed without a scar. The doe nuzzled her, then trotted away, ears twitching. Mirra returned to her garden, humming. She enjoyed helping humans and animals. It filled her with a warm glow.
The birds ceased their carolling, and strident warning calls rang out. A flock of wood pigeons that had been feeding in the glade flapped for the safety of the trees. A squirrel chittered a warning and vanished into its hole in the spreading oak tree beside the garden. Mirra looked up again as a misshapen man emerged from the trees, followed by three others. Black eyes darted in their wizened, nut-brown faces. Hairy ears protruded at right angles to their heads, and bulbous noses overhung slack-lipped mouths. Worn clothes, soiled with mud, hung ill-fitting on pot-bellied bodies. Each carried a small re-curve bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.
The four gnomes stopped and stared at her, apparently surprised to encounter a healer in these woods. Mirra rubbed the warm earth from her hands as she rose to her feet, and brushed self-consciously at her robe, embarrassed to be found in such a state of disarray.
Hiding her dirty hands behind her back, she smiled. "You are welcome here. Do you require healing?"
One gnome stepped towards her, leering, but another held him back and growled, "Let's not act like trolls, Snort."
Eager for some company, she asked, "Would you like some tea?"
"Uh, narr, we ain't thirsty." The first gnome shuffled his feet.
"You all look very well."
"Huh? Oh, yah, we are." He sniggered. "But you won't be fer long."
Her smile widened at his ignorance. "Healers do not fall ill."
Mirra studied them, fascinated. Gnomes were timid, secular people who stayed mostly in their vast warrens, usually found in hillsides, where they dwelt in tight-knit communities. They were renowned for thieving, mostly sheep or chicken rustling, and farmers cursed them, but rarely caught them in the clumsy traps they set. Gnomes were cunning, if not particularly clever. They usually moved in groups of five or six, and always carried bows and knives. This was a rare and welcome opportunity for her to learn a little about them, and enjoy some company, too.
"How may I help you?" she enquired.
The foremost gnome fidgeted and glanced at his friends. "Uh, well, you're coming with us. The boss will want to see you." His friends sniggered, nudging each other, and one muttered, "That's fer sure."
"Of course." Mirra was delighted. She had never heard of gnomes seeking help from a healer. "Take me there."
To her surprise, they gripped her arms and hustled her into the woods, heading back the way they had come. She wondered if gnomes always sought to aid their guests' locomotion in this way, or whether they thought she needed help for some reason.
"You are very kind, but I can manage on my own." When they ignored her, she asked, "Where are you from? I have not seen anyone for two days. It is nice to meet someone at last. Do you live around here?"
The lead gnome grunted. "Not exactly."
"Yuh, we just moved in," another sniggered.
"Good!" Mirra was becoming a little breathless as they hurried her along. "Is your... er, boss very sick?"
"Sick! Nah, not on yer -"
"Yah, he is." The lead gnome cuffed his companion. "Shurrup, Snort."
Snort whined, and Mirra shot him a sympathetic look, wondering why they should be so confused as to whether or not the boss was sick. Surely that was why they had sought her out? Or had they merely stumbled across her in a stroke of good fortune? She concentrated on keeping up with the rather gruelling pace they set without tripping over roots or being bashed by low branches, which the gnomes did not notice, being only three feet tall.
Soon they reached the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to a rolling meadow. A sea of men, gnomes, trolls and all manner of dark folk covered the trampled grassland from this forest to the next, several leagues away. Mirra estimated that there were several tens of thousands of men, more than she had ever seen gathered in one place. Most of them rested on the ground, some were engaged in cooking, or cleaning weapons, others talked, gambled or slept. They all seemed to favour a dull brown or black garb, and many wore rusted armour. A low mutter of male voices filled the balmy air, and a haze of blue smoke hung over the scene.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "This is an army! Ellese told me there was a war. I am glad you found me. You must have injured men, I suppose?"
The gnome shot her a disbelieving look, his wizened face creased with confusion. They trundled her into the midst of the horde, and shouts of surprise and delight greeted her arrival. The gnomes growled and pushed away those who ventured too close or tried to grab her, and a procession formed in her wake. Mirra was surprised to see every race of dark folk represented. Usually they were reclusive, and normal people rarely saw them.
Dirty, unshaven men swaggered amongst them, leering at her, their rank stench thickening the air. She fought the urge to hold a hand over her nose and smiled at them. When she came to a man who lay on the ground, a bloody bandage around his leg, she stopped. His pain called out to her, and she slipped from the gnomes' grip to kneel beside him. At her touch the wound healed, and the man stared at her, then the gnomes grabbed her and trundled her away.
They led her to a leather tent in the middle of the camp, which had an un-trampled area around it. The crowd of muttering soldiers followed, and formed a wide circle around the tent. A troll who stood at the door ducked inside and reappeared quickly. Considering the huge stature and massive strength of the black-haired sub-human, his darting eyes and fearful demeanour surprised her. The yellow tusks that curved up from his lower jaw pulled his face into a glum expression.
"Is this where your sick boss is?" Mirra started forward, but the gnomes held her back.
"Wait!" the leader said, looking nervous.
Mirra glanced at the crowd behind her. No healers accompanied this army, and the men's glares were distinctly hostile. She raised a hand to fondle her silver necklace, trying to calm her pounding heart by assuring herself that even enemy troops needed a healer's services.
Mirra looked around as a man stepped from the tent. Her heart contracted painfully as her gaze met his, and she gasped. A thick mane of jet hair framed the face of a demon crossed with an angel. His alabaster skin, which appeared never to have seen the sun, lay taut over sculpted features. Fine brows angled up sharply above long-lashed eyes of blue as vivid as a flame's bright heart. An artist striving for perfection in a godly form might have sculpted his straight, narrow nose. His only flaw was a slightly thin-lipped mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer.
The contrast in his face amazed and fascinated her. His deep widow's peak and slanted brows gave him a demonic, evil look, while his skin and eyes made him resemble a fallen angel. Lines of strain and anger furrowed the skin between his brows, and his eyes were bloodshot. The layered wings of glossy hair fell to his broad shoulders, and matched the ankle-length cloak that hung from them.
Flame-like patterns of fine gold embroidery decorated the front of his shirt, and silver-studded leather wrist guards encircled his forearms. Mirra sensed the pain radiating from him, echoed in his tormented eyes, and was surprised when the gnomes scuttled away, apparently afraid of him. His aura of power did not daunt her. Healers were trained to be unaffected by such things, since even kings and queens must seek their help at times. His obvious need of her help calmed her fears, and she smiled as she stepped forward to offer her services in the manner in which she had been trained.
"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.
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