Demon Lord
Mirra knew that arguing with him was futile. He raised the weapon and held it poised, steeling himself for the coming pain, she guessed, then sliced into his skin with quick, precise movements, opening a scar. A hiss escaped him, but Mirra writhed, straining at her bonds as agony flooded her. Her healing power rushed through her, seeking outlet. A faint golden glow ran under her skin, and her hands tingled. Bane carved another rune with deliberate strokes, blood trickling down his belly.
As he cut on the third rune, Mirra cried out, tears stinging her eyes. Her power thrummed and her hands burnt, aglow with healing light. In an effort to stop it, she gripped the chair’s arms. Bane smiled as he cut another rune. She sobbed, and light streamed from her fingers to sink into the chair. He put down the dagger, apparently deciding that four runes were enough. Mirra noted, through the haze of pain, that he had cut them in a specific order.
Bane picked up an empty cup and scraped the blood that ran from the wounds into it, and a shocking realisation dawned upon her. He was a bleeder. She sagged as the pain dulled, but her healer’s instincts blazed with the awareness that he could bleed to death from those small cuts. Bane put down the cup and picked up a pot, scooped out a dollop of green jelly and smeared it on his chest. Mirra groaned as fire coursed through her, and Bane gave a harsh bark of laughter.
“Enjoy it, girl. This is the best part,” he gritted.
Bane rubbed the burning ointment into the wounds while Mirra writhed and whimpered. When at last the pain eased again, she gasped, sweat cooling her brow. Perspiration also filmed Bane’s skin. He leant over her, the cuts now blackened and puckered, no longer bleeding, his chest smeared with blood and green gel.
“Feels good, does it not?” he enquired. “There is more to come.”
Bane picked up the second pot, scooped out a black liquid and rubbed it on his chest. After a moment, an odd sensation that she was floating out of her chair startled Mirra. She bit her lip, sickened by its evil, and sensed that the horror she had just experienced was nothing compared to what was still to come. He raised his arms, and the shadows detached from their nooks and corners and flew across the room to sink into him.
Mirra’s bile rose as the room darkened, shadows rushing in from all over, gathered and absorbed by him. The runes he had cut glowed sullen red, his eyes turned black, and his hair rose and bristled with the surging power. Bane staggered under the foul burden, then stumbled to the door and vomited. Mirra echoed his reaction, retching. Dark power chilled the room, and he returned, looking sick and drawn, to lift the flask. He poured a few drops into the cup of his blood and drank it.
Again the power flowed, and she gagged. The room had grown icy, and the floor seemed to emit black light. The walls and ceiling warped in her vision, and she cringed from the maddening illusions even as screams flayed her throat. Bane stood at the centre of a dark storm, absorbing it. Mirra wept for him, crying out at the searing agony. Darkness crawled over his skin like a disease. It soaked into him, flowing through him with nauseating horror. The power swirled about the room, drawn to Bane in shadowy streams. He lowered his arms, frowning, and the shadows eddied around him, no longer absorbed. His hands clenched, then opened, and cords stood out on his neck with the effort of controlling the magic. He relaxed, his strained expression fading, and his shoulders slumped.
The room cleared, normality returning with the sunlight that streamed in through the windows as the shadows melted away. Mirra sagged, weak and drained, her cheeks wet with tears.
Bane flopped onto a chair and raked back his sweat-dampened hair. Trickles of perspiration washed the foul potions off his chest. His eyes burnt black in a haggard visage, and he panted as if he had just run a hard race. Mirra looked down, receiving a surprise. The chair sprouted fresh green shoots. Her healing power had restored the wood to life, so intense had it been at the height of his suffering.
Bane’s voice was harsh. “You bring life, as I bring death. We are opposites. But death has more power than life; always remember that. It is nice to share my little ceremony, and interesting that my power is won through pain, while yours is just there, flowing out of you. I shall enjoy draining it from you and reducing you to an empty shell, then see what is left.”
The Demon Lord rose to his feet and shouted for Mord, who appeared with a cup. Bane drained it, threw it down with a clatter and stalked into another room, evidently to lie down and recuperate. Mord put away the pots, then released her, bound her arms and tied her leash to a table leg.
For two days, Mord kept an eye on her, but at first refused to untie her. The corpses swelled and began to stink. At night, blood-chilling screams echoed through the town as the dark creatures hunted. Mirra lay in the darkness and prayed as feet shuffled past and bat wings rustled over the roof. She wondered if the dark creatures hunted the conquered town’s surviving citizens, or Bane’s men who wandered away from the houses’ safety. Yet buildings, she discovered, provided no sanctuary.
One night, the shuffle of padded feet and the soft click of claws woke her from an uneasy doze. She froze, hardly daring to breathe, a scream clogged in her throat. Against the gloomy backdrop, she made out the blacker form of a dark creature slinking between the tables. Its gleaming red eyes betrayed the swinging of its large head as it snuffled across the floor. The monster approached, then stopped.
Apparently it had encountered the Demon Lord’s scent, and it raised its head to sniff in her direction. It blinked and retreated, and she relaxed. How ironic it was that, while Bane slept in another room, his mere scent was enough to protect her from the monsters that prowled in the night.
During the day, she dozed, the mutter of passing men as they wandered around the town disturbing her slumber. On the third day, she persuaded the troll to take her out to sit in the sun, her legs shaking with hunger and dehydration. She sank down in a patch of sunlight and raised her face to the warm rays. Mord squatted in the shade, holding her rope while she basked, a blessed relief after days shut up in the dim, smelly inn. The sunlight gave her a little strength, but did nothing to ease her knotted stomach or parched mouth.
Mord whimpered, and Mirra opened her eyes. Bane stood in the doorway, his eyes blue fire in the bright light. Lines of suffering accentuated his haggard appearance. He strode towards the troll, who dived into a nearby building to avoid the kick Bane aimed at him. Swinging around, Bane approached Mirra and jerked her to her feet, glaring down at her.
“So, you like the sun, do you? That is where you get your power from, is it not? Well, say goodbye to it. You will not bask in it again, witch.” He hauled her back into the inn and thrust her onto a chair before pacing the room. “Those idiots still have not found another ward, and I grow weary of waiting. My father grows impatient.” He pushed a bloated cadaver aside and sat on its chair. “I shall have to scry for it.”
Clearly the prospect of the headache that would result angered him. Resting his arms on the table, he spread his hands, and his eyes darkened. She shuddered as the sickening malevolence he radiated touched her. He sat motionless, his eyes unfocussed, concentrating. After a few minutes, he gestured, and an image formed in the air in front of him. It appeared to be the inside of a dark cave, and a glowing pentagram hung above lines chiselled into the stone floor. Bane smiled as the image faded. Sweat dewed his brow, and Mirra sensed the pain building within his temples.
“So, we march. Stupid human wizards, each with his own notion of how to seal the wards. This one thought he could hide it in some remote cave. Fools.”
Bane shouted for Mord, who appeared with a cup, and received the kick he had avoided earlier. Bane drained the drug and eyed the cowering troll. “Tell the captains to gather their men. We march again.”