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 the tree to which she was bound at least offered some shade. By sunset, only a few hundred men remained, camped on the far side of the meadow, 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 twitched with unease as he stopped in front of her, darting fearful glances over his shoulder.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the beating, healer,” he said. “You healed me, so I reckon I owe you.”
Mirra recognised the man whose leg she had healed, and hope surged within her. She managed a weak smile, her mouth too dry to speak. He pulled a water skin from his coat and held it to her lips. The cool liquid slid down her burning throat, bringing blessed relief. Although her healing power would block the pain of wounds, it did not prevent the pangs of thirst and hunger. She made the most of his kindness and drained the water skin.
When it was finished, she licked the last cool drops from her lips and smiled at him again. “Thank you. You are a kind man.”
He shrugged, tucking the water skin away. “One good turn deserves another.”
“The goddess will bless those who help a healer.”
“Reckon I’m beyond redemption.”
Mirra shook her head. “All can be saved if they repent.”
The man grunted at her pious words and slipped away into the darkness before she could ask him to release her. She dozed for a while, drooping in the ropes, but jerked awake at the sound of soft footfalls. Another soldier crept towards her in the moonlight, a swarthy man with a scarred face and rusty, dented armour. He stopped in front of her, eyes darting, as his comrade had done.
“Healer, I’ve a pain. Will you help?”
“Of course. Touch me.”
The soldier laid a hand on her arm, and her power flowed into him. It found the cause of his pain, a malignant tumour in his stomach, and healed it in a few moments. The pain faded, making him sigh and smile. He pulled some bread from his pouch and tore it into chunks, which he fed to her before he stole away. Much later, a drizzle woke her again, soaked her torn robe and chilled her to the bone. For the rest of the night she shivered, and the rope cut into her arms as it swelled with the moisture.
When morning came, a warm, welcome sun edged free of pink clouds and touched her with its glorious power, banishing the chill. The black-clad man visited her, and surveyed her bedraggled state with evident satisfaction. She was struck afresh by the purity of his sun-gilded features.
“Do the bonds hurt, witch?” he asked.
“No.”
“They damn well should.” Scowling, he stepped closer and tested their tautness. His touch forced her to share his pain, and her healing power flowed, but again was repulsed. He found the ropes tight and asked, “Why is it that nothing hurts you, and my father orders me to kill you?”
“I do not know.”
“I have killed healers before with the fire. They die like anyone else.”
Sorrow blossomed within her. “Why did you kill them?”
“I felt like it! Do not question me!” He glowered at her with brilliant eyes. “I shall find a way to make you suffer before you die, and when I do, you will rue the day you were born, witch.”
Mirra watched him march away, sadness settling on her like a dark shroud. There was no reason to kill healers. They only helped those in need, and never harmed anyone or anything. She had done nothing to deserve his hatred or his attempts at torturing her, and it made no sense. Even an invading army needed help for their wounded, and the healers could deny none. He was angry and bitter, and his pain was so deep it touched his very soul. She longed to free him from the darkness that hung about him, to find the reason for his suffering and cure it.
That night, two more men came to be healed, bringing food and water. One, a little bolder than the others, spoke to her for a while, and she learnt how this army had formed, gathering around the dark man. When she asked about him, the soldier could tell her little. He seemed reluctant to talk about him, even afraid to mention his name. He claimed that he had joined the army to gain riches, and she pitied him. All the while, he kept glancing at the big tent, and Mirra sensed his fear.
“Why are you so afraid of him?” she asked.
“Why?” The man grunted. “Because of who he is, of course!”
“Who is he?”
The soldier leant closer, giving her the benefit of his foetid breath. “He’s Bane, the Demon Lord!”
“He is not a demon.”
“Perhaps not, but he is evil. He comes from the Underworld. He’s the Black Lord’s son, I’ve heard.”
While Mirra pondered this startling information, the man crept away. Once again, she had not asked him to release her, but by now she sensed that these men were too scared to defy their leader. She had been told about the Underworld and its ruler, the Black Lord, but her teachers had not mentioned that he had a son.
Mirra did not see Bane for two days, and each night two men came to be healed, bringing food and water. When she found herself healing an ingrown toenail, she realised she had won their pity. The nights were too cold for her to sleep. Her shivering kept her awake, and the drizzle that usually fell before dawn added to her misery. During the day she dozed, hanging in her bonds, and woke with a stiff neck and a nasty sensation that she was becoming part of the tree to which she was bound. The unanswered questions about Bane and her uncertain future plagued her, but her mind only ran in circles when she thought about that. Instead, she concentrated on keeping warm at night and sleeping as much as she could during the day.
On the third day, Bane came to inspect her, and scowled at her good health. “Why are you not half dead from thirst, witch?” Before she could answer, he swung around and roared, “Traitors!”
Across the meadow, men leapt up from their campfires and sprinted for the woods. The Demon Lord snarled, and his eyes turned black. He lashed her with the fire, and she grimaced as her stomach churned. With a flick of his hand, he sent a bolt across the valley to gouge a chunk out of the ground behind the fleeing men.
“Mord!” he bellowed.
The troll scuttled up and abased himself, his face screwed up.
Bane indicated Mirra. “Cut her down. Wash the stink from her, and bring her to my tent. Those bastards will not feed her again.”
Bane stalked back to his tent, the jet cloak swirling about him as if his rage had fuelled it to animation. Mord ran to find help, and returned with two reluctant gnomes. When they cut her bonds, Mirra’s rubbery legs would not obey her. They carried her to a stream in the forest and washed her with coarse soap, scrubbing her ragged hair, and Mord hacked off the remaining tresses that hung from her scalp in tangled clumps. When she was clean, they wrapped her in an old, threadbare green robe and carried her to Bane’s tent.
The Black Lord’s son sat on the bed, clutching his head. When Mord entered, he demanded, “What took you so long? Fetch my medicine!”
Mord darted out, and the gnomes dumped Mirra and fled. Bane glared at her, his eyes bloodshot and his brow sheened with sweat. “Now you smell like a damned harlot.”
Mirra sat up and reached out to him, sensing his pain in palpable waves. “Let me help you.”
He smacked her hands away. “I do not need your damned help!”
“You suffer.”
“Leave me alone, witch.”
Mord dashed in, cowering, to place a cup on the table before fleeing again.
Mirra winced as Bane drained the drug. “That will kill you.”
“Rubbish.”
“It is poison.”
“Be silent! All of a sudden you have a lot to say, and I do not want to hear it. Must I gag you?”
Bane threw the cup at her and lay back on the bed. Closing his eyes, he clasped his temples, his face haggard. Mirra waited until his slow breathing told her that he slept, then crept closer, forcing her legs to work a little. Her nature cried out to help him. His pain hurt her deeply, and she longed to ease it. Placing her fingertips on his arm, she sensed again the alien power that blocked her healing. She concentrated, trying to push past it.
Bane jerked awake and lashed out, struck her in the face and knocked her back against the tent wall. She turned to find him sitting up, his expression murderous.
“Keep your filthy hands off me!”
Mirra looked at her hands, which were clean. “But they are not -”
“Silence!”
Bane ran a hand through his hair, combing it into glossy, feather-like layers. He contemplated her, then rose and tied her hands behind her with twine before going back to sleep.
For two days, she neither ate nor drank, while Bane consumed evil, reddish food and a lot of strong wine. For the most part, he ignored her while he studied his maps or left her alone when he strolled amongst his men. Apart from ordering Mord around, he spoke to no one, and seemed to wish no company. Sometimes, he glared at her as if her presence, silent and unobtrusive though it was, offended him. Apart from when Mord took her to use the trench latrine, she spent all her time curled up in the corner of the tent.
On the third day, a troll runner came in with a message. Bane sat at his table, maps spread across it as usual, wine cup in hand. The hairy creature prostrated himself, and Bane signalled for him to rise.
“What is it?”
“Lord, we’ve found a ward, in the sea town of Agaspen.”
“Is it in a church?”
“Yes, Lord.”
With a cold smile, Bane straightened and banged down his cup, sloshing its contents and making the troll whimper.
“We march!” The troll darted out, and Bane turned to Mirra. “A bit of marching should sap your strength. Everyone dies of thirst, witch; even you.”
Mirra was unable to think of anything to say, besides which, her mouth was too dry to speak.
Amid much bustle and shouting the camp was struck, and Bane mounted the red dragon to lead the troops along the road. The army straggled after him, its ranks swelled by those squadrons that had returned from their search, overflowing the road to blacken the fields around it. Mirra walked amongst the soldiers, Mord leading her by a rope around her neck. As soon as Bane was far enough away, one of the men who walked beside her held a water skin to her lips. Mord snarled at him, but he ignored the troll, who was apparently unwilling to enter into a physical conflict over the matter. When she had drunk her fill, the men fed her biscuits and bread, which gave her the strength to walk for the rest of the day.
When they camped at dusk, Mord brought her to the Demon Lord’s tent, and at the sight of her his expression became furious.
“Those bastards!” He knocked her down with a vicious backhand blow. “They have been feeding you again, have they not? They have given you water!”
Mirra nodded, and Bane swung around. She glimpsed Mord’s fleeing hairy form.
“Mord!” Bane’s bellow echoed around the camp, causing faraway men to abandon their campfires and race for the woods. “Bring them to me! I want those men, or I will torture every one of you! You will all pay!”
“Please do not,” Mirra begged. “They were only being kind.”
“Silence!” Bane kicked her, sending her rolling with a grunt.
In a remarkably short time, two terrified men were dragged in front of him, bound and bruised, their dirty clothes torn. They struggled in the brutish hands of four rough-looking men who obviously had no intention of paying for the good Samaritans’ crimes. The ruffians pushed the hapless duo to their knees and backed away. When Bane approached them, they grovelled, whimpering. Mirra recognised them, and her heart sank. They were the men who had helped her, not two others chosen at random.
Rolling onto her side, she got to her knees. “Bane, please do not punish them.”
He turned and slapped her, knocking her down again. “I told you to hold your tongue.”
The Demon Lord stood over the men, his hands on his hips, then signalled to Mord. “Whip them, then bind them to stakes and leave them beside the road. They can suffer the same fate as the healer will, when the rest of these idiots have learnt not to defy me.” He raised his voice to address the hidden army. “When I say the witch does not eat or drink, she does not! Any who disobey will share her fate, just as these do.”
The men were hauled away, and Bane strode to his tent, thrust aside the flap with a vicious blow and vanished inside. Mirra gazed after him, distraught and miserable. Soon the men’s cries pierced the night’s hush, punctuated by the sharp crack of a lash on bare flesh. She wept until Mord returned to drag her into the tent, where Bane already slept. He appeared to remain asleep when Mord dumped her, and she curled up and fell into an exhausted slumber. The men’s muffled cries haunted her dreams, and she jerked awake several times, her heart pounding.
The following day, none of the soldiers dared to come near her, but many cast her pitying looks. She kept her eyes downcast, unable to meet their glances, dogged by guilt for those who had paid so dearly for their kindness. By midday, she stumbled, weak with hunger, towed along by the rope. Her ordeal ended sooner than she expected when they reached a coastal town just after noon. The fishing village was a huddle of stone houses surrounded by a high grey wall, only the red-tiled roofs visible. It nestled against ancient cliffs, which bestrode the land like a huge step, dense woodland on top of them.
A chequerboard of cultivated fields surrounded the town, and livestock grazed in lush pastures. The cliff curved away from the town where it invaded the sea, sheltering a rocky cove that bristled with jetties and dozens of fishing boats. Smoke rose from the chimneys in a semblance of normality, but the town had been warned of the army’s approach, and its gates were closed. The villagers had barricaded the tall wooden doors with overturned wagons outside, as well as within, Mirra guessed. Even now, the last men were being pulled up the walls with ropes, their task complete.
Bane smirked at 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 to the 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. Flights of arrows and spears whistled amongst Bane’s motley army, killing many. When the villagers ran out of spears, they used harpoons, boathooks and sharpened stakes. At the wall, they tipped pots of boiling oil onto the attackers’ heads, and many died screaming, 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 fro
m their stout iron hinges.
Bane sat on the dragon, smiling as the gates gave way and swung inward with a great squeal of tearing wood. His men charged into the town, and 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 overladen 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 fled through postern gates 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 scurried 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 crawled towards the town, where they might find medicine and bandages.
Mirra’s heart bled for their pain. Her eyes stung, 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 ignored his fallen troops’ despairing cries.
The hundreds of dead outside were nothing compared to the number within. Tears of grief and pity ran down 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. “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 towed her along a deserted street, his boots ringing on the cobbles, his cloak sweeping behind him. She stumbled after him, sickened. A young woman clutching a baby ran out in front of them, her eyes wild 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 the woman’s belly, ripping her open in a gush of blood. She clutched her baby 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 led 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 around 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, and its 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 curtainsd, 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. “The work of an amateur, it seems.”
Despite his scorn, Bane contemplated the ward for a while, weighing up its danger. Mirra sensed the ward magic’s power. 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. To him, it was just one of the locks that held his father trapped in the Underworld.
Mirra shrank into a corner as his eyes darkened 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, resulting in 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, plunging the room into darkness. Bane lowered his arms. His eyes turned blue again, the whites bloodshot. He smashed his heel into the mosaic pentagram, shattering the delicate tiles, and the ward was broken.
Its pure essence had vanished with its light, and Mirra shivered as Bane’s dark aura chilled her.
He raised his head to regard 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 hauled 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 exited 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 echoing along the streets as people suffered at his troops’ hands. The clatter of running feet told of survivors trying to evade their fate, but the chases always ended in shrieks. Bane paused to watch a boy run along the rooftops, leaping from house to house with amazing agility. Two rock howlers pursued him, whooping. Mirra prayed that he would escape, but a tile cracked under his foot and he plunged to the street with a sickening thud. The rock howlers moaned, then went off in search of other entertainment.
Bane grunted and tugged her forward again. Mirra turned away when he paused to watch 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, bodies clogged the streets and thronged in houses where people had sheltered. Human troops staggered drunkenly along 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. Gibbering goblins and rock howlers crowded the rooftops. Gnomes, like their human comrades, gathered in empty alehouses 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, baleful stares. 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 cringing subservience. Rough tables stood on a rush-covered floor, some overturned by the struggle that had taken place earlier. Once it 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. 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. The sight of him eating it made her stomach churn. Bane left the bodies that littered the inn 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 he had broken, though. His solitary existence saddened Mirra, who remembered how much fun it was to chat and joke with her friends. 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.