Chapter Four
Fire Demon
The following morning, Mirra walked amongst the men while Bane rode ahead on the dragon. Grey clouds obscured the sun, and a chill wind plucked at her threadbare green robe, making her shiver. They traversed pleasant rolling fields, then joined a road that ran alongside a forest. Bane had allowed her to be untied, and it was a relief to be able to move her arms again. Benton walked beside her, visibly relieved to see her in one piece.
“We heard about what he did to you. I’m sorry he learnt your secret from us.”
“It was no secret. Had he asked, I would have told him myself. And even had he not asked, he would have found out eventually.”
Benton shook his head. “I wish we could set you free, healer, but you wouldn’t get far, and he’d kill us for sure if we did. We’re not all bad. Some of us are quite decent fellows, but we joined his army rather than die. There are those who enjoy murdering and torture, but my friends and I don’t.”
She smiled and patted his arm. “I know. I would not ask you to risk yourself on my behalf.”
Mirra stumbled beside him, her breath rasping in a dry throat. Benton supported her with an arm around her waist, but by midday, the last dregs of her strength ran out, and she collapsed. Benton called to a friend, and between them they lifted her, their faces grim. She knew almost nothing for the rest of the day, a vague blur of grass passing beneath her and the tramp of marching feet.
The men stopped and lowered her to the ground, moving away as the cold presence of the Demon Lord approached. She opened her eyes a slit to look up at him. A satisfied smirk curved his lips.
“Well, well. How do you feel now, witch? A little dry, maybe?” He chuckled, then squatted beside her, looking more angry than triumphant. “How easily you die, witch. So soon. Too soon. I had hoped to enjoy tormenting you a little longer.” He raised his head, his nostrils flaring, and she sensed a deep rage building in him. “My father would be pleased...” He looked down at her, scowling. “Yet I am not. No. I think not. For you, death would be a sweet release, and that you will not have yet.”
Bane gripped the front of her robe and jerked her upright. The world spun and a roaring filled her ears, then a cold sensation engulfed her and everything went black.
Mirra woke on the floor of Bane’s tent. Wetness chilled her face as liquid splashed onto her cheek. Bane sat on the bed, dribbling a cup of water onto her. She licked her lips, and he smiled.
“Thirsty, witch?”
She regarded him with deep sadness tinged with despair.
This seemed to irk him, for he frowned, and his smile vanished. “Are you not going to beg for water, girl? Do you not want some?”
She nodded.
“But you are not going to beg, are you?”
She shook her head.
The Demon Lord’s expression was unreadable, his eyes like chips of blue ice. “Very well. Sit up and take it. I have decided to let you live a little longer. This is too easy for you. I want your death to be painful.”
Mirra longed for the strength to refuse, and take the easy way out. Yet she did not want to die, and the proffered cup was so close, so tempting. Still, she was not sure she had the strength to take it.
Bane leant closer. “So, you would like to refuse and die now, would you not? Afraid of what the future holds?” He dragged her upright, and the tent spun. Darkness nibbled at her mind, then he shook her, and the world steadied. “You will drink, or I will pour it down your throat. No one defies me. Understand?”
The tin cup rattled against her teeth, and water sloshed into her mouth. After the first mouthful, she sucked at the liquid, raising trembling hands to grasp the cup. Never had she tasted anything so wonderful, wet and soothing. When the cup was empty, she looked up at the man who held it.
His said, “I knew you would not have the strength to resist. You humans are so weak. Do not think you would have escaped me, though. I hold your life in my hands, witch. I decide your fate, not you. When I have drained every last ounce of pleasure from your torment, I shall devise a particularly horrible death for you.”
Mirra bowed her head as he filled the cup again. This time she took it, forcing herself to drink it slowly, for too much would make her sick.
He dropped the water skin and a loaf of stale bread beside her. “Eat, drink and be merry, witch, for tomorrow we march again.”
Bane stretched out on the bed, leaving her to sip water and nibble the dry bread. She dozed, then woke thirsty again and drank more water. Misery and sadness made her weep in the darkness until she drifted off to sleep once more.
In the morning, she learnt more of the Demon Lord’s cruelties. On his orders, Mord presented her with a feast for breakfast. Grilled fowl and roast boar covered her plate, drenched with gravy. She looked away, although her stomach rumbled. Bane smiled as he spooned his Underworld food, which, she surmised, was probably made from the decomposing remains of human sacrifices made below. Her stomach clenched at the sight and smell of the stuff.
“What is the matter, witch?” he enquired. “Do you not like the food?”
She met his eyes. “I do not eat flesh.”
“Ah.” He chuckled nastily. “I knew that, of course. But you will eat it now. Mord made it especially. You would not want to hurt his feelings, would you?”
“No, but I cannot eat this.”
“You can, and you will.”
“No.” She shook her head.
Bane’s fist hit the table top with a terrific bang, making the crockery, and Mirra, jump. “You will obey me!”
Mirra looked down at her twisting hands. “I cannot. I am sorry.”
The Demon Lord turned to call out of the door flap, “Mord, bring me the man who helps her.”
Fear clutched her heart. “No, please do not hurt him.”
“Then eat your breakfast, you ungrateful girl.”
Mirra did not understand his wish to torture her. No one had been cruel to her before, and she wondered why it pleased him so. Her hands wound together in an agony of vacillation at the terrible choice that he forced her to make. Mord arrived outside the open flap with two more trolls, who held the hapless Benton.
The soldier stared at the Demon Lord, then his eyes flicked to her. Mirra cringed under his pleading gaze and picked up her fork. Her hand trembled as she looked at the dead remains on her plate, longing to jump up and flee. Bane smiled, his eyes sparkling. When she continued to hesitate, unable to bring herself to touch the food, he addressed the waiting troll.
“Beat him.”
“No!”
Mirra speared a piece of meat and thrust it into her mouth. She forced herself to chew it and closed her mind to the taste of dead flesh. Bane chuckled and made her eat every scrap, keeping Benton on hand so she could not refuse. When the ordeal was over, he rose and flicked his fingers at the waiting trolls, who released their prisoner. Mirra fought the sickness that churned her stomach until Benton was safely away, then reeled out of the tent to vomit. Bane’s sadistic, satisfied laughter followed her. He went to mount the red dragon, leaving her trying to spit out the foul taste.
When Benton returned, she sat forlorn on the grass, while Mord packed away the Demon Lord’s tent. She gulped the water he gave her, washing away the last of the oily taste. As soon as she was able, she followed the tramping horde from the vale in which they had camped, Benton beside her. He gave her some bread, but the rest of his supplies consisted of dried meat, the troops’ staple ration. Still, with that and the water, her strength returned somewhat, and she only required his help a little.
Each night, Mord took her to Bane’s tent, where she slept beside his bed. At times, he woke her when he tossed and turned, but for the most part he ignored her. Only when he used her for his sadistic pleasure did he pay her any attention. He forced her to eat meat almost every day, and once he made her drink wine until her head spun and she vomited.
Mirra endured it in silence, and his enjoyment dwindled, since her meek acceptanc
e of his cruelty gave him no satisfaction. Sometimes, she would weep at night for his twisted soul and all the innocents he had slaughtered. Outside, the lupine howls of hunting dark creatures and the distant screams of their prey echoed. None ventured near the Demon Lord’s tent, and after a while the blood-chilling sounds no longer jerked her into shivering wakefulness.
Each day, Bane’s army swallowed up the land. They marched like a disease over fields and through picturesque towns, leaving ravaged ruins and trampled mud in their wake. The dark creatures followed in the forests’ dimness, and ventured out only when they were forced to cross open stretches. Although they frightened and horrified her, Mirra pitied the beasts as they shuffled, limped and crawled to the safety of the next forest. The sky remained grim, but even its pale light seemed to torment the dark beasts. The vampires suffered least, being the only ones who could fly, while the large, slow-moving grotesques sometimes moaned as they endured the sun’s hated touch.
On several occasions, they caught a luckless peasant, too stubborn, too stupid, or unable to run from the encroaching horde, and these were tortured to death. Bane took immense pleasure in making Mirra watch these atrocities, and her pain apparently brought him great satisfaction. His favourite torture method was laying the victim on hot coals, so he did not suffocate in the smoke, but died slowly. Next was dismemberment, relieving the victim of fingers, then toes, then hands, until he bled to death. Flaying was also high on his list, as was disembowelment and strangulation. Often, the unfortunate men were left to contemplate their intestines as the army marched past. Women, more rarely found, were given to the army for sport, and at times their screaming agony lasted for days before they died.
Oddly, Bane only watched these atrocities, although his enjoyment sickened her. Stranger still, the women’s ravishment was also confined to the troops, and it did not seem to occur to him to torture her in this manner. She realised that she was his personal toy, and not to be shared with the rabble. Since he partook in the killing only rarely and the torture not at all, it appeared that she was safe from that form of abuse for the moment. Neither did he seem interested in using her for his pleasure. She had not once glimpsed a flicker of anything even remotely resembling lust in his eyes when he looked at her, only contempt and grim amusement. He was indeed, she decided, an extremely strange man, although she was grateful for this particular oddity.
After five days of walking, Mirra stumbled with exhaustion. The flesh had melted from her, leaving her thin and fragile. Benton gave her food, but she had little appetite, and sometimes she was too tired to eat when they stopped for a brief rest at midday. In the evening, she flopped down on the floor of Bane’s tent and fell instantly asleep.
On the sixth day, they reached the foothills of a range of mountains. The steep stone slopes rose from the forest like bones pushing through the skin of a rotting carcass. Mirra waited with the troops while Bane entered the cave to which his scrying had led him. He was gone for some time, and the men muttered. Mirra flinched when a blast of blue fire belched from the cave mouth, and a hush fell as everyone waited.
Bane emerged and raised his arms. “The second ward is broken!”
An unenthusiastic cheer greeted his announcement, then the men dispersed to make camp. Benton took Mirra to Bane’s tent and left her to wait outside in Mord’s care. The temperature had dropped as they approached the mountains, and she shivered despite the warm jacket Benton had given her, probably looted from an abandoned farm. Mord was soon summoned inside to deliver the brew for Bane’s headache, and took her in with him. The troll pushed her down, left the cup and scuttled out.
Bane sat hunched on the bed, his head in his hands. He glared at her before drinking his potion and flinging the cup aside. She settled beside the tent wall, trying to be inconspicuous. Bane with a headache was not someone with whom to trifle. His eyes bored into her, and she studied his boots.
“The wizard who set that ward was cunning; far cleverer than the one who set the first ward. This one had a trap.”
Mirra noted his bloodshot eyes and furrowed brow. She was surprised that he spoke to her, for he rarely did, and not usually in such a conversational tone.
“Are you all right?”
“You almost sound concerned, witch, but do not think you fool me. I am perfectly all right. For all his cunning, the wizard set a weak ward, thinking his trap would kill any who tried to break it. But I am more powerful than any wizard who ever walked this earth. His trap was a mere nuisance to me.”
Bane’s haggard look belied his words, but he grunted and stretched out on the bed. Mirra lay down and pulled the jacket around her as the cold seeped up from the ground. His occasional attempts at conversation frightened and confused her. She did not wish to say the wrong thing and send him into a rage, but was not sure of what the wrong thing was.
Showing concern always annoyed him, yet she could not bring herself to pretend to hate him as he seemed to expect. Keeping quiet appeared to be the best solution, then she sometimes escaped his notice for days, and avoided the ordeal of his malicious games. She longed to gain some insight into his life and what had moulded him into what he was, but no one seemed to know much about him, and she dared not question him.