Mirra stared at the two combatants, her heart lodged in her throat. She knew that when the demon won it would kill her, but the fight Orriss put up surprised her. Why did it bother? It was only a matter of time. Why did it fight so fiercely, its fire dimmed to a dull red glow, its burning mane and tail gone? Yalnebar had lost chunks of soil, and one arm had crumbled away entirely while another was missing half its length. She would have thought the demon would fight carefully, preserving itself while exhausting the steed, but it appeared to be battling with increasing desperation.
Yalnebar lashed out with a hammer blow, knocking the weakened steed aside, and advanced on Mirra. The demon steed picked itself up and raced between them again, but a sudden urgency seemed to galvanise Yalnebar. The demon thrust Orriss out of the way almost contemptuously, and the stallion was unable to hold it. Mirra retreated. It was one thing to realise that she was about to die, but quite another to actually stare death in the face. She turned and ran, then stopped, knowing it was useless. Yalnebar hurried after her, its remaining arms reaching for her.
Mirra tried Bane’s trick, flapping a hand at it. “Begone!”
The demon smiled, its lips dribbling soil, and lunged for her, its fingers sliding off her shoulder as she spun away. She ran towards the soldiers, who scattered, diving into the shrubbery. Yalnebar staggered as the steed charged it, slammed into its side and threw it off balance. It growled and pushed Orriss away, its stone eyes locked on its prey. Mirra knew she was merely buying time, darting to and fro, but she could not give up. The steed’s head was still proudly raised, but it was transparent, its power exhausted.
Mirra dashed away as the demon lumbered up to her, trying to think of a way to escape it. The soldiers watched the spectacle, crouched amongst the shrubs at the edge of the gorge. She turned and sprinted towards the cave on aching legs, gaining a little ground before veering towards the canyon wall. The demon was fast when it was allowed to gain speed, but too ponderous to change direction as quickly as she did. By scurrying back and forth, she stayed just out of its reach. She prayed for some sort of miracle, not knowing what, but despair spread cold fingers through her as she tired. She shrieked as the demon came perilously close, its fingers brushing her shoulder, leaving a smear of dirt.
The troops murmured and stared past Mirra and the demon, but she was so intent on escape she barely noticed.
“Yalnebar!”
Mirra jumped as Bane’s voice cracked around the canyon, and the demon stumbled to a halt. With a glad cry, she ran to Bane, amazed that he stood in front of the rock fall, although his appearance frightened her. She stopped a few feet from him.
Bane was chalk pale and the whites of his eyes crimson. Sweat streaked his face, mixed with dust and blood, and his hair hung in lank, filthy strings. The rune scars glowed redly through his tunic, and he swayed a little as he glared at the demon. He ignored her, waiting for Yalnebar to face him.
“How dare you?” His voice was low and hoarse. He glanced at the demon steed, a pulse beating at his temple, his breath deep and rasping. “You fight my steed? Disobey my orders?”
Yalnebar appeared to shrink. “I obey the Black Lord.”
“It seems my father is prepared to go to any lengths, even waiting for something to befall me, then rushing you here.”
The demon nodded. “It seems so.”
Bane placed a hand on the rocks to steady himself. “I thought you had learnt your lesson last time.”
Yalnebar’s jet eyes glittered. “You seem a little... weak, Bane. Did you have a difficult time in the cave?”
“Would you like to try me?”
The earth demon shrugged. “Perhaps you cannot stop me.”
Bane smiled crookedly. “I can always stop you, demon.” He made a curt gesture. “Begone!”
The demon slumped slowly, its form blending and its face smearing. It tried to speak, but its mouth crumbled as it slouched sideways and collapsed. Bane leant against the rocks, closing his eyes, and she thought he would pass out.
“Bane? Are you all right?” She took hold of his arm.
He jerked free. “Do not touch me, damn you.”
Mirra retreated, but noticed that the sensation of evil within him had diminished to almost nothing.
Bane pushed himself away from the rocks, tottering. “Mord!”
The troll scuttled up, holding out the jar. Bane smeared green gel on the cut on his temple, then threw the pot at the troll.
“Fetch the potions, now!”
As Mord ran off, Mirra asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I am powerless, you moron. I had to walk through rock to get out of that damned cave. My father will send another demon, and if I do not perform a Gather I will not even have the strength to banish him.”
“But you need to rest.”
“Do you want to die?”
“No.”
“I will not let my father win. He has sunk to low tactics. I will not allow it.” He sat on a rock, and Mirra squatted beside him, placing a hand on his arm again.
He shook her off. “Will you stop pawing me?”
“It is the power,” she whispered, renewing her hold. “That is what makes you sick.”
“I know that. Let go of me.”
Mirra held onto him this time, sensing that he was too weak to do anything serious about it. “The evil I have felt in you, the power that pushes me away, it is gone.”
“It will soon be back,” he said, prising her hand off his arm.
“No! You must not.”
Bane glared at her. “Do not presume to tell me what to do.”
“Please, Bane. It is killing you.”
“Get away from me, witch.” He pushed her hard enough to make her sit down in the dust, jarring her tailbone. Mord raced back and placed two jars and a bottle on the boulder beside Bane. Mirra longed to argue with him. The troll retreated to join the men, who watched from the safety of the bushes. Bane scowled at them, and she sensed that he preferred to perform a Gather in private.
He raised his voice to a hoarse shout. “You men, leave! If any of you watch this, I will strike you blind!” He gestured towards the edge of the chasm. “Go!”
The men bolted down the canyon in a willing stampede, pushing and shoving in their haste to get away, and soon Mirra and Bane were the only ones left. He shot her a cold look, but could hardly object to her staying when he had forced her to witness his ritual in the past. He stripped off his cloak and shirt, then drew his dagger. Dirt and sweat streaked his skin, and the rune scars glowed faintly still, flaring when he sliced into them. She tried to endure the pain, gritting her teeth while he carved the first rune, but hot tears trickled down her face, and she whimpered.
He glanced at her, his expression scornful. “If you do not like it, leave. Go and whine somewhere else. I have no wish to hear it.”
Mirra wondered if he no longer wished to torture her, or simply found her an annoyance. When his power was depleted, he was definitely less vindictive, calmer and more approachable. It was as if the dark magic warped his reason, gave him loathsome thoughts and a love of torture and death. His anger remained, however, as did his faith in the Black Lord, causing him to take up the power again.
Mirra moved away, so she would not share his suffering too much. As he Gathered the dark power, his lips became an unhealthy shade of red again, and his eyes lost most of their humanity. Even from where she sat, it sickened her, the shadows becoming a part of him, where they did not belong.
When at last the Gather ended, Bane sagged, the empty blood cup falling with a clatter. Mirra hurried over to him, his sick pallor and the lines of strain and pain on his face worrying her. When she tried to touch him, he pushed her away and straightened. She knew that sheer willpower and pride fuelled him now, and his brow glistened with sweat.
“He comes.”
A black circle formed on the ground, which sizzled as it burnt. The earth demon that rose from the soil, formed out of it, was a stranger. Mirra had been expe
cting Mealle, since Yalnebar was banished.
Bane waited until the demon was fully formed. “Draynabesh.”
“Young Bane,” the demon grated. “I was told you needed help.”
Bane’s lips curled in contempt, and he raised his chin. “Did my father send you?”
“No. Yalnebar said you were hurt.”
Bane’s sneer became a mirthless smile. “I, hurt? Impossible.”
Draynabesh stepped closer. “May I aid you?”
Bane nodded at the steed. “Give Orriss your power.”
The demon sidled towards Mirra. “You did not summon me.”
“You refuse?”
“I came to help you, not Orriss.”
“I do not need your help.”
“But you do. You need to be rid of a problem.”
Mirra quelled her longing to flee the demon’s looming presence as it approached, so intent on her that it failed note the significance of the pots, or Bane’s lack of a shirt.
“Leave her alone,” Bane said.
Draynabesh raised a huge fist, and Mirra yelped and grabbed Bane, releasing him with a scream as dark power surged through him. His eyes blackened, and he gestured, fire arcing from his fingers to strike the earth demon, burning a chunk of soil from its chest. Draynabesh staggered back, gaping, and Bane rose to his feet, his hands clenched, his expression menacing.
“You dare to defy me? Disobey me? You will pay!”
The demon cringed, opening its mouth, but Bane banished him with a harsh command. Then he spoke the curt words of summoning, and Draynabesh rose from a third black circle.
Again, Bane waited until it was fully formed. “Grovel, Draynabesh.”
The demon fell to its knees and abased itself.
“You are dirt, Draynabesh. Dirt.”
“I am dirt, Demon Lord.”
“When next you feel you can defy me, remember this. I have but to summon you, and you will serve me.”
“I will serve you,” Draynabesh echoed.
Mirra sensed that the demon seethed with impotent rage, and wondered at the advisedness of Bane’s cruelty.
Bane was merciless. “Give Orriss your power.”
The demon rose, walked to the steed and touched it. Dark power flowed from it, thickened the steed’s translucent form back to solidity and ignited its burning mane and tail. Draynabesh returned to stand in front of Bane, some of its gritty substance falling away in a shower of dust.
Bane glared at it. “I am the Demon Lord, Draynabesh. Do not forget it.”
The earth demon bowed. “Yalnebar needs to be reminded.”
Bane nodded. “I shall do that. Begone!”
The demon was sucked back into the Underworld, leaving behind its soil in a foul heap. Bane leant against the rock. Mirra’s hands tingled from the touch of his dark fire, and her stomach remained a tight knot. Her sickness must have shown on her face, for he eyed her sourly.
“That will teach you to stop pawing me, will it not, witch?”
Mirra hung her head, nodding.
Bane turned away. “Mord!”
The troll appeared within a few moments to gather up the potions while Bane issued curt instructions. As Mord scuttled off, the steed approached, and Bane mounted with some difficulty, but growled when she tried to help. She mounted the grey stallion, following the Demon Lord to a glade where his army waited and his tent was pitched.
Under the eyes of his men, Bane stalked into the tent, but Mirra found him prone on the bed, an empty cup on the floor. He seemed oblivious to her, clutching his head, his eyes shut. Mirra winced at the pain he radiated, but knew he would reject her help if she offered it. Bane tossed and turned, unable to escape the pounding in his head, his face ashen.
His jaw muscles bulged as he ground his teeth, but he bore it in silence. She found it difficult to stand by and do nothing, so great was her longing to help him. From the words of the old mage on the Isle of Lume, she guessed that Bane had used too much of his power and taken a long stride closer to death. After all the times he had saved her, unwittingly quickening his doom, she had to do something, no matter what his reasons had been.
Mirra left the tent and searched the forest’s grassy glades for the wild flower she needed, and found a clump after half an hour. Picking a bunch, she ran back to the camp and borrowed a pot and a fire from some trolls, who watched curiously as she brewed her remedy. Even if Bane was angry, even if he beat her for it, she would somehow get him to drink it.
Bane still lay on the bed, his hair rumpled and eyes sunken. Gathering her courage, she went to him and touched his shoulder. His eyes opened, and the suffering in them made her recoil.
She held out the cup. “Mord made a stronger brew. I asked him to.”
Bane looked hopeful, then suspicious. “You tricked me before. You will not do it again.”
Mirra’s eyes stung at his mistrust and impending rejection. She knelt beside the bed. “Bane, I cannot stand to see you suffer so. Please drink it. It is not poison.”
He stared at her as if trying to plumb her soul. “You drink it.”
“I am not in pain. You need it.”
Lines of weariness scored his face as he closed his eyes. He had not slept well for days. “You drink some first.”
Mirra nodded, eager to comply with any condition he stipulated if it persuaded him to take the potion. She took a gulp of the sweet brew, which tasted of flowers, a pleasant flavour. Bane watched her, as if expecting her to keel over or change colour. She held out the cup, but his eyes remained suspicious.
“Poison would not work on you, would it?”
She slumped. “I am trying to help you.”
Bane frowned, then sat up and took the cup. She thought he would hurl it across the tent, but he slugged it back, driven by the pain. Mirra suspected that death would have been a merciful release at that moment, and he was almost beyond caring. He rubbed his face, pushing back his thick mane. She waited for the miracle. It only took a few minutes. He sat with his head in his hands, waiting, she suspected, to strangle her the moment he felt something strange.
Mirra sensed his pain abate, slowly at first, then faster, washed away as if by the waves of a rising tide. When the last torturous clamp released his brain, he drew a deep breath and raised his head. The lines of suffering faded and his brow smoothed. He regarded her with a hint of confusion, then his expression hardened.
“So, this time it was not poison. Do not think you have gained my trust.”
She shook her head, smiling. “No, I will not.”
Bane raked back his hair and lay down again, relaxed now, but still exhausted. The sweat and dirt that had covered him when he had emerged from the cave were gone, burnt away by the dark power. She left him to sleep, happy that she had at last eased his suffering. Wandering outside, she joined some trolls playing knucklebones and happily losing a fortune she did not have, and they did not want.
As dusk fell, she spotted a light in Bane’s tent and quit the circle of players to enter it. The Demon Lord sat at the table, studying his maps again. He looked better than he had for weeks, and she smiled, well pleased with the result of her skill. He shot her a quick, blank glance, then went back to his reading, ignoring her as she settled on the floor.
Politely she waited until he put aside the map before asking the question that had been burning in her mind all afternoon. “What happened in the cave?”
Bane stared at her with hostile eyes, as if debating whether or not to tell her, then said, “Another clever trap. I was expecting something, but I could not find it. I broke the blue ward, and nothing happened, so I broke the solid ward, and the roof fell in.”
“How did you get out?”
“I used the magic of rock walking, and walked out.”
“Through the rock?” she asked, amazed.
He shrugged as if it was a minor matter they discussed, and not the use of stupendous amounts of magic. “Yes. It is not pleasant, cold and dark, like wading through thick
treacle. That is what used up all my power. It requires a lot, and I cannot Gather at the same time.”
Mirra nodded, remembering again the haunting words of the mage on the Isle of Lume. “I think that is what they want.”
“Who?”
“The mages who set the wards. They foretold your coming, and planned for it.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Remember the old mage? He said that each time you use your power, you come a little closer to death.”
“That is a lie.”
Mirra quailed a little, not wanting to enrage him, but her concern drove her on. “Maybe, but every ward you break forces you to use more power, does it not? The mages want you to use it so much that it kills you before you reach the final ward.”
“The mage also said my father planted the seeds of my destruction, and he would never do that. It is a lie.”
“Perhaps that is. Maybe your father does not know what it is doing to you.”
He looked pensive. “If that is true, you were also planted in my way to help kill me.” He glared at her. “I have used plenty of power to protect you from the demons.”
Mirra’s heart sank. She had not considered that. “But your father is sending the demons.”
“Then he cannot know it is harming me. He does not want me to die.”
“No,” she agreed, her mind racing. “At least, not until you have broken the last ward. Perhaps that is why he stopped sending them for a while, until you were trapped in the rock.”
“My father does not want me dead. He has spoken of us sharing this world. Why would he kill me? Your fellow healers plan my death, after all, it is their world, and they are trying to protect it. They must have known the power would make me sick, and placed you in my way so you would cast your spell, forcing me to protect you. My father has been trying to save me by getting rid of you, and I should have heeded him.”
“If that is true, I am causing your death.” She shook her head, horrified. “I cannot believe healers would do that.”
“This is war.”
What he said made a lot of sense, and she raised her eyes to his, flinching at the hatred in them. “Then I should leave, so you do not have to protect me anymore.”
“My father will have you killed. I should be glad of that, but I am not. You will stay with me. Your vile spell has bound me to you. I cannot let you die, or kill you, until the spell is gone.”
“But if he sends more demons, you will have to use the power.”
“Then release me from the spell, if you are truly so concerned about me.”
“There is no spell.”
“You are lying. Your magic forces me to protect you every time something threatens you.” His nostrils flared. “I will speak to my father. When he learns that the power is harming me, if it is, he will find a way to stop it. When he rises, he will break your spell, and I shall kill you myself.” He ground the last words out.
She shrank from his vehemence. “Please do not. I do not want to die.”
“Your spell is powerful, witch, but once it is broken, nothing will stop me killing you, and I shall enjoy it.”
Mirra wondered what spell he was talking about. She had thought that Prince Holran was right, and Bane had come to like her, yet he railed against his gentleness towards her as if it was evil. That he thought her capable of using magic to force him to be kind to her was abhorrent. All she had done was try to help him, yet he hated her. Surely healers could not cast such a spell, but it made sense if they planned his downfall by forcing him to protect her. They were trapped. She was afraid to leave his unwilling protection, and he could not leave her, or harm her. The situation was diabolical.
“I am sorry.”
“You are always sorry. What good does that do me?” He motioned to the tent flap. “Get out.”
Mirra scrambled up and stumbled into the cool night air, her heart leaden. The only way she could save him was to leave; yet she wanted to stay with him. She did not know why, but it was not only because of the demons. Perhaps it was because she so desperately wanted to ease his suffering, yet her whirling mind rejected that idea. Her presence put him in danger. He could die because of her. Certainly that would end the threat to the land, but her heart contracted painfully at the thought of his demise. Healers were forbidden to kill, yet indirectly, she would if the plan worked.
Mirra wandered amongst the shadows under the trees, where moonlight dappled the ground with flecks of silver. If she left, perhaps the spell would be broken. It did not matter if the demons killed her. She would die when the Black Lord rose anyway. If she stayed, Bane might die, leaving the Black Lord trapped in the Underworld, but with Bane’s death on her conscience. Yet surely the Black Lord would find another way to break the two remaining wards? He could have another son, or, if Prince Holran was right, kidnap another hapless child. In twenty years’ time, another man would emerge from the Underworld and break the wards.
Perhaps if she left, the Black Lord would not bother to send a demon after her, for then Bane would be free of her. Maybe they would both live longer apart. She did not want to be the cause of anyone’s death, especially Bane’s. The healers, if they were responsible for this, were wrong. Killing Bane to save the world was wrong. It broke the healer’s rule to preserve life. She could not countenance it, much less be a part of it. Death was not something to be feared, and if the Black Lord destroyed the world, the good people would fly to dwell with the Lady and the bad would be rightfully punished.
Her mind made up, Mirra looked around, discovering that she had strayed far from Bane’s tent. Deep shadows and moonbeams patterned the forest, where red eyes glowed, making her shiver. The dark creatures seemed to be stalking her, but perhaps they only watched her pass, their acute sense of smell detecting Bane’s scent on her. She contemplated running back to his tent, but discarded the idea and gathered her courage. If she could reach an abbey, she would be safe, for demons could not tread on holy ground, but she was deep in the Old Kingdom.
The warhorse approached, snuffling and nudging her in welcome, as horses did. Using a fallen tree as a mounting block, she pulled herself onto his back and urged him to head for home, clinging to his thick mane as he raced through the shadows, his hooves drumming on the damp earth. Aboard his warm back, she felt a modicum of safety. The powerful surge of his muscles and the swiftness of their passage imparted a sense of security. Passing trees whipped her with thin branches, and the cold night air bit into her bare arms, making her huddle close to the stallion’s warmth. An owl, ghosting overhead, hooted mournfully, as if in gentle warning of the course she had chosen.