Demon Lord (8 page)

As yet, she had not pleaded for
food or water, denying him the satisfaction of listening to her
beg. Rising to his feet, he swayed as his head throbbed and his
vision blurred. Nausea overtook him, and he staggered to the door
and vomited. When he returned to the table, another cup of the drug
awaited him upon it. He drank it, then went over to the girl and
grasped the rope around her neck.

The girl woke with a gasp as he
dragged her to her feet, the rope cutting into her neck. The cord
grew tight on the table leg, and Bane broke it with a jerk. He kept
pulling, forcing her onto her toes, then the rope started to choke
her. She gazed into his eyes as her breath stopped, remaining limp
and docile, apparently resigned to her fate. Her knees buckled, and
Bane smiled as she sagged, watching her skin mottle and her face
swell with deep satisfaction. A few more seconds, and she would be
dead, yet still she did not suffer. With a growl of rage, he sent
her flying with a backhand blow.

The girl crashed into the
furniture, unconscious, and sprawled under a table. Bane hauled her
out and shook her until she came to with a gasp.

"You will not escape me that
easily, witch," he snarled. "I shall see you suffer before you
die."

His evil power made Mirra's skin
prickle. With a shake that rattled her teeth, he dragged her
outside, wincing and shielding his eyes from the sun. Spotting a
loitering soldier, he yelled, "You there!"

The soldier jumped and backed
away. "Lord?"

"Take this piece of trash and
torture her! Make sure she suffers! I want to hear her scream!"
Bane shoved her, sending her to stumbling into the man. "If I do
not, I will make you suffer in her stead."

The soldier gripped Mirra's arm
and bowed to Bane before pulling her away down the street as Bane
re-entered the inn. The man led her to a house several streets
away, whence raucous singing wafted. In the house's courtyard,
fifteen men feasted on looted food and wine. They sat or lounged
around an ornamental fountain amidst smashed furniture and ripped
curtains. The fountain still played its musical tune, but the
plants around it were trampled and crushed, the water filthy.

Two men snored in a corner, the
rest seemed to have partied all night, and most were too drunk to
stand. Glad cries arose when the soldier entered with his ragged
captive, and many rough hands dragged her amongst them, plucking at
her robe. Mirra was speechless with shock at their rough handling
and lecherous leers, frightened by the glint in their eyes. She was
unused to such treatment, having never been accosted in this
manner. Before she could protest and identify herself, a man by the
fountain stood up and walked over.

"Wait." His companions
hesitated, looking at him, and he stared at Mirra with bleary brown
eyes. "She's the healer."

Mirra recognised him as one of
the men whom she had healed at the camp in the meadow, and smiled.
The others were strangers, presumably men who had left just after
she had been captured. They growled, angered that their fun had
been curtailed. Several argued that she was not a healer, since she
wore no white robe. A bearded man with a bandaged arm came to her,
holding out the injured limb. She kissed his hand, healing him. The
soldier took off the bandage and stared at his arm with awe.

Someone untied her hands, and
she turned to smile at the brown-eyed man with a square, careworn
face framed by plaited black hair as she rubbed her wrists. He wore
a motley collection of dull clothes under a suit of rusted chain
mail with a rent in one side. Although short, he was powerfully
built, and the copper bands that encircled his upper arms
proclaimed him to be a member of a fierce warrior tribe from the
far north. He also appeared to be relatively sober, compared to the
others.

The young soldier who had
brought her protested, "The Lord told me to torture her. He said he
wants to hear her scream."

"Does he now?" The brown-eyed
soldier looked thoughtful, and turned to Mirra. "My name's Benton,
and I fear we'll have to oblige Bane, or we'll all suffer."

"I understand, but I do not feel
pain."

He raised a hand. "No, no, I
wasn't suggesting we hurt you. We respect healers, and they're much
needed in a war. Many men have injuries, and we ask that you heal
them now Bane has let you out of his sight. But if you scream,
he'll believe we're doing as he ordered, you understand?"

She nodded. "I do, but it is
dishonest, for I will not be truly hurt."

"We don't want to hurt you, but
if you don't do this he'll punish us."

"Why does he want to hurt
me?"

Benton gave a bark of bitter
laughter. "Because he's evil, healer. He's the Demon Lord! He
enjoys seeing others suffer. He loves to kill and torture. You
stand for everything that's pure and good. You, he wants to suffer
more than anyone."

Mirra shivered and glanced
around at the rough, unshaven faces smeared with dirt and drawn
with fatigue. Most looked like they had once been honest farmers,
their faces weather-beaten, their hands callused from ploughing and
hoeing. They were, she realised, as much Bane's victims as she was,
forced to do his killing for him, or die. Many had probably been
press ganged into service; others joined up rather than be
slaughtered. Most of the humans in Bane's army were mercenaries or
soldiers from other armies, drawn by loot and conquest, but this
group did not appear to be made up of such men. They had picked up
some bad habits, however, judging by their initial rough handling
of her.

"Then I will do as you ask."

Benton nodded. "Now, if he asks
how we hurt you, what shall we tell him?"

"To hurt a healer, you must
inflict pain on another, close by, without allowing the healer to
help them. Healers only feel the pain of others." She shivered
again. "I suffer just from being near him, for he is in pain
constantly."

"Him? Mord says he has
headaches, nothing more."

"He does, but there is more to
it than that. He suffers all the time."

Benton frowned. "Well, you'd
best not tell him his presence hurts you, or he'll use it against
you." He looked around. "Madick, bring that girl in here. Is she
still alive?"

A soldier went out and came back
carrying a young girl. She hung limp in his arms, unconscious,
burnt and bruised, covered with cuts and scrapes. Mirra tried to go
to her, but Benton restrained her.

"No, you can't help her. If Bane
comes to see why you're screaming, we'll use her, so leave her
be."

Mirra yearned to help the child,
unable to tear her eyes away, and Benton jerked his head at the
other man. The soldier took the girl out again, and Mirra slumped.
Benton led her to a window.

"Now healer, scream."

Mirra's first attempts were not
convincing. She felt foolish and dishonest, and her screams were
more like fluting cries. The men shouted encouragement, and she
shrieked louder. Soon the soldiers roared and Mirra screamed at the
top of her lungs, terrible, agonised sounds. Benton grinned,
patting her shoulder.

"That should be music to his
ears."

Mirra coincided her screams with
the men's roars, until she grew tired of it. Then she healed the
wounded, whose injuries were only cuts and sprains gained in
battle. A man was despatched to find more wounded, and Mirra eyed
the spread of raided food on the table.

Benton noticed her hungry look
and gestured to the food. "Eat all you want."

Mirra shook her head. "I cannot.
He would punish you, as he did the two men who fed me when we were
on the march."

Benton scowled, his eyes
glinting. "He's determined to torture you, yet most of us will
perish fighting his battles anyway. I say eat, and the consequences
be damned." He glanced around at his friends, most of whom looked
away, betraying their unwillingness to be punished for feeding her.
He went on, "He should be satisfied that we've tortured you, he
might not realise you've eaten. It's one thing to avoid punishment
by faking your torture, but I'm willing to risk it so you can
eat."

"No. I will not be the reason
for anyone to be whipped and left to die. He means to torment me
anyway, there is no need for you to share my fate."

Benton looked unhappy, and
opened his mouth to protest further, but Mirra laid a hand on his
arm and smiled. He shrugged and wandered away to sit with his
fellows, probably thinking her hunger would drive her to eat when
she could no longer bear the sight of the food. She averted her
gaze from it, determined not to be tempted. Tired from the healing
and weakened by hunger and thirst, Mirra lay down on the floor,
surrounded by the muttering men. One of them gave her a brocaded
pillow, and she closed her eyes, the gentle tug of sleep tempting
her.

The temperature seemed to drop,
and she sat up, startled, as the men scattered, Benton knocking her
backwards as he passed. She struggled upright again, a little dazed
by the speed of events, and a shadow fell on her. Mirra looked up
at Bane. His eyes glowed as he glanced around at the men who
cowered in the corners.

"How did you torment her?"

Benton inched forward, his head
bowed. "Lord. We tortured another, and she felt it worse than the
victim."

Bane's malicious smile
broadened, revealing white teeth. "Excellent, of course, you know
how to torture your own."

Benton cowered, and Bane dragged
Mirra to her feet, his fingers digging into her arm. "Now I can
have the satisfaction of doing it myself, witch."

Mirra shared his pain as he led
her back to the inn, biting her lip. The throngs of dead and the
black birds that hopped over the corpses were all that populated
the streets. The men and gnomes were all within the buildings,
drinking or sleeping. Most of the trolls, goblins and rock howlers,
uninterested in alcohol or loot, camped outside in the woods, where
they were more at home. A gleam of red eyes in a shady street told
her the dark creatures still inhabited the town, preferring the
deeper shadows of cellars.

When they arrived at the inn,
Bane pushed her into a chair and tied her to it with twine. While
he was bent over her, she studied his face at close quarters,
finding it hard to believe he was human. His white skin was so
fine, smooth and matt; his long black hair gleamed like a raven's
wing. His good looks belied the tales that those who worshipped the
Black Lord were ugly, mutilated and dirty, but then, he was not a
worshipper, she surmised. No scent clung to him, and his aura of
power made her hair bristle.

When he moved away to sit beside
a bloating corpse and sip his wine, she said, "I share your pain,
so there is no need to torture others."

His brows rose. "My pain? Oh, so
my company is painful to you?"

She nodded.

"Excellent, then I will have to
arrange some more for you to share." He leant forward, rolling the
golden cup between his palms. "I am not talking about the
headaches. Those are annoying, nothing more. You see, where I come
from, I learnt to deal with a great deal of pain, even to enjoy
it." He grinned, a half snarl. "If it will hurt you too, so much
the better."

He turned and shouted for Mord,
who appeared from the next room, crouching subserviently. Bane
glowered at him. "Fetch the potions. It is time I had a cleansing,
this foul world is softening me."

The troll scuttled into the back
room again, and Bane stood and unclipped his cloak, dropping it
over the corpse, then unbuttoned his tunic. He stripped it off,
revealing a powerful torso. Each muscle was defined, sharp-edged,
rippling as he moved, but her eyes were riveted to the terrible
scars that marred his chest in a deep 'V'. They looked ritualistic,
carved in patterns of evil meaning, stark against his skin. They
were runes, she realised, symbols of dark power cut into his
flesh.

Bane sneered, "Do these shock
your puritanical little mind?"

Mirra shook her head as she tore
her eyes from the scars. "How could anyone do that to you?"

"No one did it to me. I did it
to myself, to gain power, girl. Power is what matters. The power to
rule the world."

Bane swung away from the
infuriating pity in the girl's eyes. He remembered well the cosy
glow of the Underworld, and the massive, stifling cavern in which
the ritual had first been performed. The inner fire had thrown red
light onto the tortured stone ceiling from the cracks that crazed
the floor. The magma river that flowed under the cavern heated it
to an unbearable temperature, but Bane was the only one who
sweated. The scars were not self-inflicted. His father had cut the
runes into him on his sixteenth birthday. Bane had been chained to
a bulbous rock column, his arms spread.

The Black Lord had stood before
him and warned him not to cry out.

"Only cowards feel pain, boy.
You will learn to enjoy this, and do it to yourself. It gives
power. Blood must flow, and yours is the most powerful blood of
all."

Bane had panted harshly as his
father cut the runes, and the Black Lord did it with exquisite
slowness, enjoying every moment of his son's pain. Bane had ground
his teeth as sweat rolled down his face. After that, he had been
made to do it himself, and, although he had not learnt to enjoy it,
he had learnt to bear it.

Mord returned, cringing, and
placed a flask and two pots on the table. The troll fled, and Bane
smiled, drawing the dagger from its belt sheath.

"Now we shall see how much you
suffer, witch."

Knowing the futility of arguing
with him, Mirra gazed at him sadly as he raised the weapon. He held
it poised, steeling himself for the coming pain, she guessed, then
sliced into his skin with slow, precise movements, following the
old 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.