Demon Lord

  Chapter Ten

  The Fourth Ward

  After five more days of hard marching through peaceful dales and scenic, abandoned towns, Bane halted in the foothills of the Dragon Mountains. The grim walls of Torlock Keep awed Mirra. Carved from the mountains’ granite, legend had it that giants had built Torlock Keep, and she understood why people thought so. It guarded the tunnel that led deep into the heart of the mountains, beyond which lay the peaceful kingdom of Marrane.

  The mountains formed an impenetrable barrier of jagged, snow-capped grey peaks that brushed the clouds, and the pass was the only entry into Marrane from Thawnia. The castle towered over them, its battlements populated by the tiny, distant figures of sentries. Its only entrance was a huge stone drawbridge raised by massive chains, behind which were two immense stone doors.

  The keep had been built entirely with magic, so long ago that no one could remember by whom or how or when it had been created. Some said that powerful mages had built it, a story borne out by the narrow, man-sized corridors that were supposed to honeycomb the keep. Whoever they were, the builders of Torlock Keep had not intended that it be taken.

  Supplies and fresh troops were brought in from the kingdom on the other side of the mountains, and the impassable peaks kept the supply route safe. Mountain streams provided water, and no one could poison it without scaling the almost sheer slopes, an impossible feat even without the defenders using them for target practice.

  The guardians of Torlock Keep had been warned of the Demon Lord’s approach, and the drawbridge was up, the keep impregnable.

  Bane gazed up at the castle, narrowing his eyes against the pale clouds’ glare. The soldiers stared down, safe on their lofty battlements. A green and gold banner snapped in the wind, bright against the drab grey mountain. Behind Bane, his army shuffled and muttered as they eyed the fortress. Anyone could see that laying siege to this place was as futile as trying to halt the tide.

  Bane smiled, undeterred, perhaps even pleased to face such an interesting challenge. What looked impossible for a normal man was probably a mere trifle to the Demon Lord, Mirra thought. He dismounted, and the troops made camp. Mirra slid off her mount and removed the saddle, letting the stallion wander away to graze. She had long since dispensed with the bridle, which she did not need. Mord put up Bane’s tent, and he retired to it. Mirra followed, keen to get out of the icy wind.

  He glanced up at her entry, his eyes glacial. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing, I -”

  “Then get out.”

  Mirra retreated, stung. Since he had destroyed the air demon, she trod warily around him, for he seemed to hate the sight of her now, and avoided her company. There were times when he spoke to her quite calmly, then rage would enter his eyes again, and she kept away from him when it did. He no longer seemed to care about the danger of demons, and did not insist she stayed near him, often ordering her to leave him alone. Forlorn, she sought Benton and Madick, who started a fire with some friends, and welcomed her company. She helped gather wood, and then sat with them. The soldiers discussed the keep and how Bane planned to overcome it, many suggestions flying about.

  “I reckon he’ll fly up there an’ raze them soldiers,” one man said.

  Benton shook his head. “Nah, he’ll probably order us to scale the walls, and most of us will die trying. But I won’t, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Maybe he can walk through rock,” a soldier joked, then took a deep swig from a wine skin and handed it to Madick.

  Madick grunted, accepting the skin. “He won’t bother with that. He’ll most likely bring the whole bloody mountain down around their ears.”

  “As long as we don’t have to fight them,” another man muttered.

  Mirra listened to their speculations, wondering, like them, how many would die trying to overcome the keep.

  “Perhaps he’ll start an avalanche,” the first soldier suggested, adding a branch to the fire.

  “That’ll more likely bury us. Won’t harm them, they’re inside the damned mountain,” Benton replied.

  “He’ll probably get his friends to help,” Madick said, and a profound silence greeted his suggestion.

  Mirra shuddered at the thought.

  Dusk fell while they talked and ate, long fingers of shadow sliding down the slopes, the sky reddening behind the clouds, turning them pink. She sat on the cold, stony ground, wrapped in a thick woollen cloak a grateful soldier had given to her, staring into the flames. The men’s talk was hushed and morbid, and she tried not to listen. However Bane decided to take the keep, she had no doubt that he would succeed, and that it would entail a great deal of bloodshed, since everything Bane did was steeped in blood and death. The defenders of Torlock probably thought themselves quite safe in their fortress, but they had not faced the Demon Lord before.

  A sudden scrabble of boots made her look up. Bane stood on the opposite side of the fire, his lips curled in a cold, empty smile. The men fled into the darkness, leaving behind half-eaten food and slowly spilling wine skins.

  “How nice it is to be so respected,” Bane said, gazing after them. “I wonder why they think I wish them harm. I have not killed that many of them, only those who were cheeky. But they go to extremes.”

  Hunkering down by the fire, he stared into its depths. He had shown no sign of weakness or injury since he had been wounded at the battle, and his new black shirt hid his wounds. Mirra doubted that any of the men even knew he had been injured, unless Mord had told them. If they did, they would at least know he was human. Bane poked the fire with a stick, his eyes glowing in its light. He seemed more approachable than he had been in the tent, and she ventured a question.

  “How will you get past the keep?”

  He shrugged. “I seem to have few options. It cannot be stormed or starved out. The gate cannot be bashed in, and I am certainly not going to go in there and let them try to poke holes in me.” He looked at her. “I am not called the Demon Lord for nothing.”

  “You are going to summon a demon.”

  Bane nodded, frowning.

  She shivered, following his gaze into the fire. “But it might try to kill me.”

  “It cannot. If I summon it, it has to obey me. When I decide to kill you, witch, I will do it myself.”

  Mirra glanced at him, but he still scowled at the fire, snapping a twig and tossing the bits into the flames. He stood up, throwing the last piece of twig into the fire, and she knew he was about to start the summoning. She rose to her feet and headed into the darkness to seek her friends, but Bane’s deep voice stopped her.

  “Where do you think you are going?”

  She turned to face him. “I do not want to watch. Please do not make me.”

  He snorted. “Do you really think I care what you want? You stay here, or I will break every bone in your body, understand?”

  Mirra returned to the fire, casting him a pleading look. He gazed at the flames, probably contemplating the headache this would give him, then all expression drained from his face. His eyes blackened as he unleashed the power within him. Raising his arms, he spoke two harsh words, and the fire flared.

  The black ring that crisped outwards from it detoured around her feet, leaving her standing on an oasis of normal ground. Mirra watched in horrified fascination as the flames changed colour, becoming streaked with sick, lurid hues. Dark power surged forth, making her stomach heave as a shape formed in the flames, swelling and brightening, rising up in a seven-foot column. The demon took on its six-armed, three-eyed form, and bowed to Bane.

  The Demon Lord greeted the fiend with cold words. “Mealle. How nice to see you again.”

  “Bane. I knew you would require my aid,” Mealle sneered.

  Bane smiled and flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “A dirty job I cannot be bothered with, is all. Why should I, when I have you at my beck and call?”

  The fire demon’s eyes flared, but its voice was coolly controlled. “What will be my reward, the slu
t’s life?” It looked at Mirra, who flinched from its burning yellow eyes.

  Bane frowned. “Do not be impertinent. I do not have to reward you, and the girl is mine, to dispose of as I see fit.”

  Mealle sniggered. “If you can.”

  “Be silent! Insult me and you will pay, just as Yansahesh and Yangarra did.”

  The demon bowed again. “What is the task?”

  “The keep. I want it cleared out tonight, the gates opened and the drawbridge lowered. Then you return here, nothing else.”

  Mealle’s glowing eyes turned to the fortress, where men ran about with torches, alarmed by what was happening below. Its black slit mouth curved in a smile as it formed legs and stepped from the fire, turning towards Mirra, who backed away. Its gaze slid over her with a sickening touch of dark fire, and her frantic eyes sought Bane. He merely watched her, smiling, his hard stare challenging her to defy him and run. She stood her ground, the blackened earth burning her feet.

  “A brave one, that,” Mealle commented.

  “That is what makes her such an amusing toy,” Bane replied, and the demon nodded, then stepped closer to her, extending an arm.

  “Perhaps I could torment her a little.”

  The Demon Lord said, “She is my plaything, not yours. Get on with the task. I wish to pass through the tunnel in the morning.”

  Mealle sniggered and turned away. Mirra sagged, shooting Bane a grateful glance that he ignored. The demon shrank, its limbs and features vanishing, becoming a flame that drifted upwards. Shouts of alarm came from the battlements as the defenders realised what was happening. Mealle ascended higher and higher, drifting like thistledown on a warm wind. Arrows hissed down as archers tried to shoot the demon, but those lucky shots that hit it merely burst into flames.

  “Idiots,” Bane scoffed. “Do they think they can harm a demon with arrows?”

  “They are desperate,” Mirra murmured.

  “Of course.”

  “Will you kill everyone in the Overworld?”

  His eyes flicked down to her. “You question me?”

  She stepped back, shaking her head, knowing how dangerous it was to anger him.

  He snorted, his eyes raking her. “I will not have to. My father will do it.”

  The Demon Lord swung away and went to his tent to take his potion and soothe the pain she sensed mounting behind his eyes. Mirra sat down beside the fire and craned her neck to watch the demon vanish into the keep, the window through which it entered flaring with orange fire. Screams erupted from within, and she plugged her ears in a desperate bid to block out the sounds. The cries were still audible, however, and her fingers made her ears ache. She eventually gave up, letting the tormented shrieks from the keep tear through her while she prayed to the Lady.

  Occasional flashes of fire came from within, and soft explosions mingled with the screams of the dying. She hoped most would flee through the tunnel that led to their homeland, for to try to fight the demon was useless, and if they opened the gates and surrendered they would receive no mercy from Bane.

  Many jumped from the battlements, landing with sickening thuds on the rocks below, choosing to die quickly rather than be burnt to death. Most did not have that option, however, the slit windows too narrow to climb through. Vampires flew up to join the carnage from the horde of dark creatures that gibbered and howled with bloodlust below, and wights scaled the rugged walls and slipped in through the windows. Without the demon, the defenders would have cut them down, but now they were able to join the slaughter with impunity.

  Benton and Madick crept back to the fire, and Benton put his arm about her, trying to still her shivers. The soldiers who camped around them were silent, and no one slept that night. The dark creatures’ raucous cries made that impossible, even for those whom the screams from the keep did not bother. Mirra was certain the demon could have killed all the castle’s inhabitants in a few minutes if it chose, and its victims’ prolonged suffering was only for its entertainment.

  By the time pale morning light crept across the land, the keep was silent, wisps of black smoke rising from some of the windows. Burnt, broken bodies huddled at the base of the cliff, some partially eaten by the dark creatures, and the men muttered while they waited. As the first rays of morning light filtered through the clouds and lighted the snow high above, Bane emerged, stretching and yawning as if he had slept soundly all night.

  As he turned to frown at the keep, the drawbridge lowered with a rumble of chains to boom against the ground, revealing the massive doors open beyond it. The inside of the drawbridge was cut into steps, forming a steeply sloping staircase to the doors set into the rock about ten feet off the ground. A brilliant flame drifted out to halt in front of the Demon Lord. It swelled and transformed into the smirking demon.

  Bane nodded. “Good. Just in time.”

  “What, no thanks?”

  “You enjoyed yourself, did you not?”

  “Naturally.” The demon’s smirk grew broader.

  “Then do not try my patience, Mealle; one day you will anger me, and then you will be sorry, now begone!”

  The demon vanished in an implosion of air, leaving a stench of sulphur behind. Bane smiled at the open keep, his eyes narrowed in the bright morning light, then signalled to the waiting captains without bothering to look at them.

  “Go, take all you want.”

  With a roar, the men charged into the castle to claim their loot. The trolls, rock howlers and goblins remained at their campfires, eating their breakfast. They were not interested in plunder. Red eyes glowed from the shade of scrubby trees and the nooks and crannies in the rocks, revealing the hiding places of the dark creatures that sheltered from the sunlight. The vampires and wights, gorged on meat and blood, had long since rejoined them. When the men had vanished inside, Bane beckoned to Mirra, who clutched her cloak around her. She approached him, and he waved her towards the keep. At first she could not move, unable to face the horror within, then realised she would have to enter the keep in order to pass through the tunnel into the mountains.

  As she stepped through the cavernous doorway, the sickening stench of burnt flesh and fear made her recoil with a choked gasp, but Bane shoved her forward. She walked along the huge, hall-like corridor that led straight into the mountain, trying to block out the foetor with a hand over her nose. Many doors led off it, but to her relief no corpses littered it, and she hoped she would see none.

  Mirra’s skin crawled at the dry rustle of bat wings and click of claws as weirds, grotesques and grims crept through the darkness behind her. Shivers raced down her spine, and she fought the urge to glance back at the creeping, snuffling horde that sought the sweet stench of death in the gloom. Their feast of human flesh, interrupted by the dawn outside, would continue in the keep’s dimness until their appetites were sated. Bane gripped her arm and pulled her into a side passage.

  “Let us go and inspect Mealle’s handiwork,” he grated in her ear.

  Mirra wanted to run, but knew she could not break away from him, and even if she did, he would catch her in a few strides. The headache Mord’s potions no longer soothed communicated itself to her as they traversed a glassy-walled passage, its curved floor slightly abraded by aeons of traffic. The walls reflected the light of the torches that burnt in sconces every few feet, but their acrid smoke could not compete with the stench of death.

  Mirra sensed the agony that had been endured in this place, and was unable to prevent herself glancing into the rooms they passed. They had no corners, and the walls appeared to be slightly concave. Nothing was utterly flat or perfectly square, although whoever had built this massive castle had striven to accomplish this. In some places, the rock strata looked smeared, as if a giant hand had squashed it into shape. Most of the rooms had no windows, for they were deep in the mountain, and torches filled them with pale golden light.

  Bane went from room to room, inspecting burnt tapestries and smouldering carpets, singed furniture and charred ornaments.
Mirra gave a choked cry when they encountered the first corpse, a roasted man, his mouth stretch wide in his last scream. Bane dragged her into the next room, where three bodies huddled together under a layer of ash. Ignoring her horrified expression, he led her onwards, finding more and more corpses, the sight of which made her queasy.

  Women and children had died in closets and under beds, babies in their cradles or their mother’s arms. Some were little more than ash flaking away from white bones, others merely looked cooked, and a few appeared to have died of fright. The shock and horror numbed her, and after a while she walked beside Bane like an automaton, her eyes unfocussed.

  Bane seemed to become increasingly furious with her, jerking her arm and shoving her along ahead of him, sometimes thrusting her close to the bodies. Silently she wished them a safe journey to the Lady, knowing that if she said it aloud Bane would slap her. The crashes and shouts of the looting troops echoed through the castle, and there seemed no end to the passages and rooms.

  Occasionally, men scuttled from their path. Finally they came to a room where Mealle had enjoyed some entertainment. Mutilated corpses littered the floor, obviously tortured at length. Most were burnt beyond recognition, but one moved and made a soft mewing sound. Mirra’s blood chilled as she realised that the roasted man still breathed in short, bubbling gasps.

  His eyes, ears and tongue had been burnt away, and he lacked skin, the raw, weeping flesh glazed. She recoiled, trying to jerk her arm from Bane’s grip, but he held onto her, his face as hard as the granite walls.

  “Why do you not help him?” he mocked.

  “It would be no mercy. He is beyond healing.”

  “You would leave him to suffer?”

  She tried to prise his iron-hard fingers from her arm. “I can do nothing. He requires a mercy stroke.”

  “You mean kill him?”

  “Yes, but I cannot do it.” The man’s pain made her tremble.

  “Why can you not heal him with your miraculous power?”

  “I cannot recreate what has been lost. I could save him, but he would be without eyes, ears, a tongue, and skin.” Her voice rose, tinged with hysteria, and her struggle became frantic. She looked up at him. “Please let me go. I cannot bear it.”

  “Would you like me to kill him?”

  “Please!”

  He shook his head. “Then I will not.”

  Bane smirked, or tried to, but he did not look as pleased as he usually did when tormenting her. Mirra gave up the unequal struggle and turned her back on the dying man. Bane contemplated her for a moment as if she was an interesting insect, and she wished she knew what was going through his mind.

  At last, he led her out, releasing her arm as though her touch was repugnant. She walked ahead of him in a daze, turning corners blindly, and at times he dragged her back and steered her down another passage. She found herself back in the original hall, where some men had gathered, their clothes and packs heavy with loot. Bane sent a few running to fetch the rest with a gesture, then mounted the steed. He looked pensive, and rode down the huge tunnel without a backward glance.

  Mirra called the grey warhorse and followed at a distance, keeping the Demon Lord just barely in sight. The steed gave off a red glow that lighted the way like a beacon, and the troops straggled after them, some carrying torches, jingling with newfound wealth that would only burden them on the hard march ahead. The trolls, goblins and rock howlers carried more practical booty: meat from the keep’s stores, much of which had already found its way into their copious stomachs. The unburdened dark creatures brought up the rear, gorged with human meat and blood. The tunnel curved upwards after a few minutes of travel, and a cold wind blew down it. Mirra shivered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears for the demon’s victims, and Bane.

  By the time they reached the end of the tunnel, which opened into a richly grassed bowl dotted with pale grey rocks, the sun descended. The men trudged to a flat area, where they lighted fires and set up camp. Grey mountains towered all around them, blocked the sun’s slanting rays and made the deep bowl dim and cold. On the far side, another tunnel yawned blackly: the unguarded entrance to the land beyond. Mirra hoped some of the keep’s inhabitants had escaped through it while the demon had been occupied with its foul entertainment. A small lake glinted at one end of the bowl, fed by a glittering waterfall. Miniature trees edged its far shore, clinging to the rock face.

  Next to the tunnel they had just left, shrubs and flowers grew in a little garden, where the castle’s denizens had undoubtedly come to picnic in the sunshine. She could imagine the soldiers’ wives bringing their children there to play on the grass and swim in the lake. A few cattle grazed nearby, bells tinkling. Some men headed towards them, and she knew they would feast on fresh beef that night.

  A ring of ten-foot-tall white marble dolmens stood next to the lake, joined together by the blocks of dressed stone that rested across them. Bane rode over to it and dismounted, and Mirra caught up as he walked into the middle of the ring, his eyes on the huge altar stone there. Its surface was chipped and pitted, worn from years of use by the ancient priests who had once worshipped here.

  Bane wandered around the ring, studying the runes carved into the stones, grunting with disapproval and amusement. “Amateurs,” he muttered. “Idiots; bungling fools. They did not even know what they were doing.”

  Mirra leant against the inside of one of the circle’s stones, weary and numb after her ordeal in the keep. Bane approached and stopped in front of her. She wondered what he wanted, then he looked up, and she followed his gaze. There above her, beneath the huge stone block, was a glowing blue pentagram, and above it, the carved ward.

  “Very crafty,” he said. “Break it, and the stone falls.”

  She lowered her eyes to his up-tilted visage. “What will you do?”

  He shrugged. “Break it.”

  “But the stone...”

  His head jerked down, and he glared at her. “Get out of my way.”

  Bane thrust her aside, and she retreated to a safe distance. For several minutes, he studied the ward, muttering under his breath, then, apparently satisfied that he had worked everything out, he positioned himself under it and raised his arms. Dark fire burst from his fingers and hammered the glowing blue lines, which resisted destruction for only a few seconds before they vanished in a flash. The huge stone cracked down the middle with a grating report.

  Bane dived aside, but the falling rock was faster. It struck the ground with a sickening thud, pinning his ankle. He grunted and turned to tug at his leg, his aspect fierce. Mirra ran to him, drawn by the intensity of his pain, and fell to her knees beside him, her throat tight.

  A glance at his face told her that he would not let her help him, and there was nothing she could do anyway. His eyes were pits of darkness, and the fire licked over him, making her stomach churn. He grimaced as he struggled to master the pain and the fire, then the blackness drained from his eyes, and he relaxed a little.

  Mirra touched his arm, but he pushed her away, snarling, “Get away from me.”

  “What can I do? Please let me do something.”

  “Fetch Mord.”

  “What about some men to lift the stone?”

  His pale eyes glinted. “Imbecile! They will not come near me.”

  “But -”

  “I do not need their help. Do as I say!”

  Mirra ran to the camp, where Mord was erecting Bane’s tent, and panted his summons. The troll snatched up the pack and sprinted to the stones, leaving her gasping in his wake. When she arrived, Mord hid behind one of the standing stones, clutching the pack and staring at Bane. The Demon Lord was propped up on one elbow, engulfed in dark fire, which he directed to lift the massive stone. It rose from the depression it had made in the ground, and he grimaced as he pulled his foot out. Letting the stone fall, he slumped onto his back with a soft groan, extinguishing the black fire. Mord scuttled nearer, clutching the pot.

  Bane held out his hand, and
the troll placed the jar in it before fleeing to the safety of the stones. Mirra hurried over to Bane and knelt to examine his foot, starting to unbuckle his boot. He sat up, cursed, and shoved her away.

  “How many times must I tell you? Idiot!”

  Bane glared at her, then bent to remove his boot, baring his teeth in a silent snarl as he pulled it off. A deep, oozing gash marred his instep where the stone’s weight had torn his skin. He smeared it with the burning green gel, ignoring Mirra’s whimper, then shouted for Mord to bring him a cloth. The troll dug in the pack and pulled out what looked like Bane’s torn shirt, which he brought, holding it out at arms’ length and retreating as soon as Bane snatched it from him. Bane tore the shirt into strips and bound his foot, then, with remarkable disregard for the pain, pulled his boot back on and climbed to his feet, hardly touching his injured foot on the ground.

  Bane limped over to the fallen stone, his brow sweat sheened, and shot her a baleful look when she followed.

  “You should rest, Bane,” she said.

  “The ward is not broken, lackwit.”

  “Do it tomorrow.”

  Bane spun as if to hit her, but she was out of reach, and he teetered. “Do not tell me what to do.”

  Mirra sighed as he placed his palm upon the stone. She guessed that he was avoiding multiple headaches by using the power as seldom as possible, and had no wish to earn himself another one tomorrow. That made sense, but it did nothing to ease her concern for his health, even though he displayed inhuman strength. He summoned the power again, channelling it into the stone. A dull report came from beneath it as the ward broke, and four runes on the altar glowed soft blue. Bane frowned at them as they winked out one by one, like a countdown.

  The standing stones exploded with stunning force. An immense flash of blue fire engulfed the temple, accompanied by a massive thunderclap. Great chunks of flying rock filled the air, thudding into the ground like cannonballs amid a storm of shrapnel. The blast flung Mirra several feet, and the maelstrom of flying rock would have killed her had she been powerless. She landed hard and rolled into a ball, covering her head as the bits of rock that had been flung upwards rained down in a hail of stone. The explosion’s echoes rolled away through the mountains in a harsh, deep-throated rumble, like a giant’s bellow of rage.

  As soon as the rocks stopped falling, Mirra sat up. The circle of stones was gone, and where the temple had been there was now a mass of white rubble, like churned snow. It thinned as it radiated outwards, scattered over the grass. Mord writhed and whimpered a short distance away, his shaggy hide oozing blood from dozens of small wounds. Only his thick pelt and tough hide had saved him, and she ran over to heal him, then grabbed the pot and turned to Bane.

  Incredibly, the Demon Lord struggled to sit up, shaking his head in a dazed manner while he gasped and clutched his ribs, the wind clearly knocked out of him. Blood soaked the tattered remnant of his tunic and trickled down his face from a cut on his temple. The shirt and cloak had shielded him somewhat, but he had dozens of gashes and scrapes, and some sharp shards were imbedded in his flesh. He plucked them out, his jaw ridged as he gritted his teeth, and flashed her an angry glance when she approached him. She controlled her instinctive urge to heal him and held out the pot instead. He took it, smearing the gel on the oozing cuts while she marvelled that he had escaped serious injury, for he had been even closer to the explosion than she had.

  When he had rubbed the burning ointment into the wounds he could reach, he glared at the useless troll, who cowered, then turned his baleful eyes on Mirra. He thrust the pot at her, and she took it with a smile, but he gripped her wrist in an icy, vice-like hold.

  “You touch me with that damned power of yours and I will kill you, witch. Now is your chance to prove you do want to help, and believe me, if you try anything, you will die before I do.”

  Mirra nodded, stunned. He unclipped his cloak and let it fall, and the salve stung her fingers as she daubed it on the bleeding cuts in his back. The shirt impeded her, and he ripped it apart with a vicious jerk, revealing pale skin mottled with pink bruises and deep cuts. She plucked out some slivers of rock, dabbing the burning salve on the lacerations, her fingers on fire as she hunted for more cuts.

  He snarled, “Hurry up, damn you.”

  “I-I do not want to miss any.”

  Bane growled, but sat still until she was satisfied and handed back the jar, then checked himself again to make sure all the bleeding was stopped. There were fewer injuries on his legs and buttocks; the tougher material of his trousers seemed to have deflected all but a few larger chunks, and those cuts he tended through the holes in the material. His skin bore dozens of puckered black wounds, and one of the runes glowed, a scratch running through it. A graze marred his cheek and a bruise swelled on his forehead. Mirra wiped the burning gel off on a patch of grass. Bane capped the jar and hurled it at Mord, who whimpered.

  “Useless troll!” Bane lurched to his feet, and Mord fled to the camp, where most of the army stood gazing in their direction, curious about the explosion but unwilling to investigate. Bane glared around at the destruction, his shirt hanging about his hips in tatters.

  “Another sharp mage. Two traps, the first obvious, the second a surprise. Very neat.” He sat on the fallen ward stone, the only one still intact. “But I am still here, and you missed your chance, girl. You will not get another.”

  Mirra’s jaw dropped, but she knew the futility of protesting her innocence and contented herself with a shake of her head. Bane regarded her until the demon steed thundered up at his command, then rode back to the camp. By the time Mirra got there, carrying his discarded cloak, he lay on his bed, an empty cup beside him. He stared at the roof with bloodshot eyes, and she settled on the floor.