Demon Lord (4 page)

The army followed him through
the next valley and into a town at its far end. Only a few aged
livestock and an old man who died of fright when he saw the first
troll inhabited it. Although expected, Bane found the Overworld
people's cowardice annoying. It robbed him of his daily
entertainment. The troops took some enjoyment in setting the
village alight, but Bane found little satisfaction in that.

Leaving the town to burn, he led
them down the road a few leagues before he stopped and turned to
survey them with narrowed eyes, searching for a bold look or a
defiant air amongst them. If he could find fault with one of them,
he could devise a painful punishment for his amusement. The men
cowered, giving him no excuse for such an action, and he snorted in
annoyance. If he tortured one of them for no reason, they would
leave, and he did not relish the prospect of doing everything
himself. He turned and led them onwards. There had to be some old,
weak, sick or injured stragglers that could provide sport for the
evening.

By the end of the day, a group
of trolls had found only one child lost in the woods, but had torn
him apart in their eagerness. When Bane found out about this, he
had them whipped for cheating him of his evening's entertainment.
That provided some small measure of the amusement he craved,
although it was not as satisfying as torturing an innocent. He was
tempted to scry, but that used the dark power, and would bring back
the headache.

By the time they camped for the
night, Bane's mood had turned ugly, and he kicked Mord when the
troll brought his supper. The food, a reddish concoction sent from
the Underworld, was his only sustenance. He pondered it as he ate,
ignoring its bitter taste. As an Underworld creature, Overworld
food would be poison to him, his father had said. The Black Lord
was naturally concerned for his son's health, although Bane was
unsure how Overworld food could poison him when he was so powerful.
His father seldom explained things, however. He simply expected
obedience.

Like making Bane hate women. He
must have had a reason, but he had never told Bane what it was.
Instead, he had filled his son's head with terrible stories about
witches and evil women since he had been old enough to understand
them. Then, when Bane was fifteen, the Black Lord had captured a
pretty girl and brought her to the Underworld. She had begged Bane
for mercy, since he was the only creature there who even resembled
a human. Every time he had looked at her, his father had grown
angry, accusing him of weakness and sentiment. At first, she had
fascinated him, but his father's mockery and the demons' baiting
had made him hate her, and his father had ordered him to kill
her.

Up here, he had come across many
women, and found that they died as easily as men. None lived up to
the stories his father had told him. Not even the healers in the
abbeys. They had been the easiest to kill, for they did not even
try to flee. He never doubted his father, but many things had
confused him over the years.

Like all the painful ceremonies
he had been forced to undergo, which the Black Lord had told him
were to give him the ability to wield the dark power. Demons had
cut him, collected his blood, mixed it with potions and fed it to
him. Bane had vomited for days, and his father had railed at his
weakness. This had confused him, for no one else in the Underworld
had blood, or underwent the ceremonies. When he had questioned his
father, the Black Lord explained that he had been created a certain
way, so he could go to the Overworld and break the wards.

Bane flung the empty bowl out of
the tent and lay down, stretching out on the hard cot. His lithe,
powerful physique was also a gift from the Black Lord. Bane had
undergone years of forced labour; useless, strenuous tasks that
made his body bulge in odd places. True, he was strong, but he had
hated the labour. He had broken rocks and dug new tunnels, which
his father could create with a flick of his hand, while demons
watched and sniggered as he sweated. That had stopped when he
mastered the dark power. He smiled. His father had been pleased
with him when at last he had been able to wield the power. After he
had destroyed Yangarra, the demons ceased to torment him, and life
had been good. Still pondering, he fell asleep.

Mirra dug in the vegetable
garden, taking care not to harm any of the fat earthworms she found
there. She had seen no one in two days. That did not surprise her,
although she had expected some wounded soldiers and was
disappointed that none had come her way. The deer came at her call,
but seemed more nervous than usual. They stayed only long enough to
snatch the sweet bread she gave them before vanishing into the
woods once more.

Birds answered the call of
spring, raising chicks in scruffy nests and tree holes, filling the
woodland with their lilting song. Her only patient had been a
starling with a broken wing. A mere moment's work, although still
satisfying. The squirrels brought her nuts and a badger left tender
roots outside her door each night as tokens of their friendship.
For someone who had grown up in a crowded abbey, however, the
peaceful forest was a lonely place.

Mirra looked up at a flash of
movement amongst the trees, hope buoying her heart. A young hind
limped from the woods, her eyes wide and fearful, and Mirra hurried
over to her. The deer trembled and panted as Mirra examined her,
and the animal's pain tingled through her. Mirra gasped when she
found the black arrow that protruded from the doe's haunch, and
raised a hand to her mouth in shock. The infliction of such pain
upon an innocent animal horrified her, and she realised that the
purpose of the shaft had been to kill the doe. She had never heard
of such a thing, since the healers ate no meat. She could not
fathom the reason for killing such a beautiful creature.

Mirra still had much to learn
about the world, however, so she set aside her dismay for now,
certain that some logical explanation would be forthcoming in the
future. Her healing power flowed as she pulled the arrow painlessly
from the wound, which closed without a scar. The doe nuzzled her,
then trotted away, ears twitching. Mirra returned to her garden,
humming. She enjoyed helping humans and animals. It filled her with
a warm glow.

The birds ceased their
carolling, and strident warning calls rang out. A flock of wood
pigeons that had been feeding in the glade flapped for the safety
of the trees. A squirrel chittered a warning and vanished into its
hole in the spreading oak tree beside the garden. Mirra looked up
again as a misshapen man emerged from the trees, followed by three
others. Black eyes darted in their wizened, nut-brown faces. Hairy
ears protruded at right angles to their heads, and bulbous noses
overhung slack-lipped mouths. Worn clothes, soiled with mud, hung
ill-fitting on pot-bellied bodies. Each carried a small re-curve
bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.

The four gnomes stopped and
stared at her, apparently surprised to encounter a healer in these
woods. Mirra rubbed the warm earth from her hands as she rose to
her feet, and brushed self-consciously at her robe, embarrassed to
be found in such a state of disarray.

Hiding her dirty hands behind
her back, she smiled. "You are welcome here. Do you require
healing?"

One gnome stepped towards her,
leering, but another held him back and growled, "Let's not act like
trolls, Snort."

Eager for some company, she
asked, "Would you like some tea?"

"Uh, narr, we ain't thirsty."
The first gnome shuffled his feet.

"You all look very well."

"Huh? Oh, yah, we are." He
sniggered. "But you won't be fer long."

Her smile widened at his
ignorance. "Healers do not fall ill."

Mirra studied them, fascinated.
Gnomes were timid, secular people who stayed mostly in their vast
warrens, usually found in hillsides, where they dwelt in tight-knit
communities. They were renowned for thieving, mostly sheep or
chicken rustling, and farmers cursed them, but rarely caught them
in the clumsy traps they set. Gnomes were cunning, if not
particularly clever. They usually moved in groups of five or six,
and always carried bows and knives. This was a rare and welcome
opportunity for her to learn a little about them, and enjoy some
company, too.

"How may I help you?" she
enquired.

The foremost gnome fidgeted and
glanced at his friends. "Uh, well, you're coming with us. The boss
will want to see you." His friends sniggered, nudging each other,
and one muttered, "That's fer sure."

"Of course." Mirra was
delighted. She had never heard of gnomes seeking help from a
healer. "Take me there."

To her surprise, they gripped
her arms and hustled her into the woods, heading back the way they
had come. She wondered if gnomes always sought to aid their guests'
locomotion in this way, or whether they thought she needed help for
some reason.

"You are very kind, but I can
manage on my own." When they ignored her, she asked, "Where are you
from? I have not seen anyone for two days. It is nice to meet
someone at last. Do you live around here?"

The lead gnome grunted. "Not
exactly."

"Yuh, we just moved in," another
sniggered.

"Good!" Mirra was becoming a
little breathless as they hurried her along. "Is your... er, boss
very sick?"

"Sick! Nah, not on yer -"

"Yah, he is." The lead gnome
cuffed his companion. "Shurrup, Snort."

Snort whined, and Mirra shot him
a sympathetic look, wondering why they should be so confused as to
whether or not the boss was sick. Surely that was why they had
sought her out? Or had they merely stumbled across her in a stroke
of good fortune? She concentrated on keeping up with the rather
gruelling pace they set without tripping over roots or being bashed
by low branches, which the gnomes did not notice, being only three
feet tall.

Soon they reached the edge of
the forest, where the trees gave way to a rolling meadow. A sea of
men, gnomes, trolls and all manner of dark folk covered the
trampled grassland from this forest to the next, several leagues
away. Mirra estimated that there were several tens of thousands of
men, more than she had ever seen gathered in one place. Most of
them rested on the ground, some were engaged in cooking, or
cleaning weapons, others talked, gambled or slept. They all seemed
to favour a dull brown or black garb, and many wore rusted armour.
A low mutter of male voices filled the balmy air, and a haze of
blue smoke hung over the scene.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "This
is an army! Ellese told me there was a war. I am glad you found me.
You must have injured men, I suppose?"

The gnome shot her a
disbelieving look, his wizened face creased with confusion. They
trundled her into the midst of the horde, and shouts of surprise
and delight greeted her arrival. The gnomes growled and pushed away
those who ventured too close or tried to grab her, and a procession
formed in her wake. Mirra was surprised to see every race of dark
folk represented. Usually they were reclusive, and normal people
rarely saw them.

Dirty, unshaven men swaggered
amongst them, leering at her, their rank stench thickening the air.
She fought the urge to hold a hand over her nose and smiled at
them. When she came to a man who lay on the ground, a bloody
bandage around his leg, she stopped. His pain called out to her,
and she slipped from the gnomes' grip to kneel beside him. At her
touch the wound healed, and the man stared at her, then the gnomes
grabbed her and trundled her away.

They led her to a leather tent
in the middle of the camp, which had an un-trampled area around it.
The crowd of muttering soldiers followed, and formed a wide circle
around the tent. A troll who stood at the door ducked inside and
reappeared quickly. Considering the huge stature and massive
strength of the black-haired sub-human, his darting eyes and
fearful demeanour surprised her. The yellow tusks that curved up
from his lower jaw pulled his face into a glum expression.

"Is this where your sick boss
is?" Mirra started forward, but the gnomes held her back.

"Wait!" the leader said, looking
nervous.

Mirra glanced at the crowd
behind her. No healers accompanied this army, and the men's glares
were distinctly hostile. She raised a hand to fondle her silver
necklace, trying to calm her pounding heart by assuring herself
that even enemy troops needed a healer's services.

Mirra looked around as a man
stepped from the tent. Her heart contracted painfully as her gaze
met his, and she gasped. A thick mane of jet hair framed the face
of a demon crossed with an angel. His alabaster skin, which
appeared never to have seen the sun, lay taut over sculpted
features. Fine brows angled up sharply above long-lashed eyes of
blue as vivid as a flame's bright heart. An artist striving for
perfection in a godly form might have sculpted his straight, narrow
nose. His only flaw was a slightly thin-lipped mouth twisted in a
contemptuous sneer.

The contrast in his face amazed
and fascinated her. His deep widow's peak and slanted brows gave
him a demonic, evil look, while his skin and eyes made him resemble
a fallen angel. Lines of strain and anger furrowed the skin between
his brows, and his eyes were bloodshot. The layered wings of glossy
hair fell to his broad shoulders, and matched the ankle-length
cloak that hung from them.

Flame-like patterns of fine gold
embroidery decorated the front of his shirt, and silver-studded
leather wrist guards encircled his forearms. Mirra sensed the pain
radiating from him, echoed in his tormented eyes, and was surprised
when the gnomes scuttled away, apparently afraid of him. His aura
of power did not daunt her. Healers were trained to be unaffected
by such things, since even kings and queens must seek their help at
times. His obvious need of her help calmed her fears, and she
smiled as she stepped forward to offer her services in the manner
in which she had been trained.