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. The infliction of such pain upon an innocent animal horrified her, and she realised that the purpose of the arrow had been to kill the doe. She had never heard of such a thing, since 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 gave her a warm glow.
The birds ceased their carolling, and strident warning calls rang out. A flock of wood pigeons that fed in the glade flapped for the safety of the trees. A squirrel chittered and vanished into its hole in the spreading oak beside the garden. 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 torsos. 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. Do you require healing?”
One gnome started towards her, leering, but another held him back and growled, “Let’s not act like trolls, Snort.”
Eager for some company, Mirra 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 days. It is nice to meet someone at last. Do you live hereabouts?”
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... err, 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 carried on 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 scanned the crowd behind her. No healers accompanied this army, and the men’s glares were distinctly hostile. She fondled her silver necklace, trying to calm her pounding heart by assuring herself that even enemy troops needed a healer’s services.
A man stepped from the tent, and Mirra’s heart contracted painfully as her gaze met his. 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 sha
rply above long-lashed blue eyes 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 well-shaped mouth was twisted with scorn.
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.
“May the goddess bless you, and her power heal you through me.”
His cold eyes never left her face as he spoke in a soft, menacing voice. “I doubt that, little girl.”
Mirra laughed, and he winced as if it hurt his ears. “I am certain that whatever your illness is, I can help you.”
“You were not brought here to help me.”
Mirra stepped closer, which seemed to surprise him, for his brows rose a fraction. “But I can stop your pain.”
“Really.” His eyes glinted.
Mirra reached up to touch his brow. His skin was cool and satin smooth. He regarded her flatly, his eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation. She snatched her hand away and rubbed it as she retreated a step, uncertain. Her healing seemed to bounce off him as if a barrier just under his skin blocked it, and she sensed a strangeness deep within him, which confused her.
His lips curled into a derisive smile. “Your magic will not work on me, witch. My father made certain of that. I am so glad you could join us today. Sport has been hard to come by lately, and I have missed it.” He raised his head to address the soldiers behind her. “Take her and bind her.”
As he stepped back, many hands gripped her arms and dragged her towards a large, upright rock. The strange turn of events perplexed and alarmed her. The tall man followed, his shadowy cloak flaring to reveal a crimson lining.
The men bound her to the rock with rough ropes, forcing her to stand with her back pressed against it. The black-clad man watched her, and she wondered what they were going to do. Surely they would not harm a healer?
When she was lashed to the stone, he walked closer. The men sidled back, and he stopped in front of her, his eyes icy.
“Now you will see what I do with witches.”
“I am not a witch. I am a healer.”
“Do not talk back, witch.”
The man pulled a black-bladed dagger from a sheath on his belt, and she watched him with vague disquiet. He fingered the blade, his eyes raking her as if pondering his next move, then he raised the weapon and drew it down her cheek in a swift motion, surprising her. The cut healed instantly, without a drop of blood escaping. His eyes narrowed, and he peered at her cheek, then at the dagger. He cut her again, deeper, with the same result. Frowning, he turned and held out a hand to the men behind him, who shrank from it.
“Give me a brand.”
A man yanked a piece of burning wood from the nearest fire and thrust it into her would-be tormentor’s hand, and he swung back to her. He pressed it to her cheek, but her power healed the burn and blocked the pain. The smell of charring flesh sickened her, but she knew from childhood escapades that any injury she received healed instantaneously. Perhaps he was ensuring she really was a healer, she thought.
He removed the brand and scowled at her. “So, the little witch has real magic.”
“I am a healer.”
“Silence!” His hand cracked across her cheek, snapping her head around. She wondered what she had done to anger him. He was a little flushed, and his brows almost met over his nose. Mirra gasped as his vivid eyes turned black, and he raised his hands. She sensed a surge of strange, evil power. Black flames arced from his fingers and crawled over her like loathsome shadows. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed the sour sting of bile. Apart from the nausea, the fire only tingled where it touched.
He snarled and unleashed a lash that drove her back against the rock, causing her healing to flare. The crowd retreat with fearful moans, and Mirra flinched from the power he wielded. Lowering his hands, he let the black fire die. The darkness drained from his eyes as he glared at her.
“What are you?”
Mirra sagged, relieved that the sickness had vanished with the fire. “A healer.”
He swung away, his expression thunderous. “I will not waste my power on a puling witch-maid. Make my father happy!” he roared at the crowd. “Torture her! We want to hear her scream!” He strode away, his back stiff.
The horde closed in on her, and many dirty hands cut the ropes and pulled her into their midst. She yelped as knives slashed her robe and sliced her in bloodless cuts that closed without a trace. Clubs smashed her fingers and snapped her arms and legs. She was beaten, pummelled, thrown down and stomped on, spat on, urinated on. They rolled her in the dirt, broke her ribs with kicks, pierced her eyes with daggers and thrust burning brands into her skin. They tore out her hair in tufts and slashed it off with knives, forced excrement into her mouth and stabbed swords through her gut. The injuries healed instantly and painlessly, but their severity caused her skin to glow with the golden power. Through it all, she gave only an occasional grunt when they knocked the wind out of her.
When they withdrew, she was smeared with muck, her hair gone, but for snarled clumps, her gown in rags, and a bad taste in her mouth. She gazed at them with sad reproach, two tears escaping down her cheeks as she fingered the filthy ruin of her hair. The gnomes who had captured her dragged her to her feet and hauled her to their master’s tent. The troll ducked inside for a moment, and Mirra pulled together the tattered remnants of her dress in a rather vain attempt at modesty, since there was hardly enough cloth left to cover her.
The black-clad man emerged and surveyed her with a grim expression. Pain radiated from him, and she longed to heal him.
“Is this the best you could do?” he roared at the gnomes, who scuttled away, to stop at a safe distance. “I want her dead! Are you so useless that you cannot kill a simpering maiden? All you have done is dirty her and cut her hair!” He clasped his brow, wincing, then turned to the troll who cowered next to the door. “Where is my damned potion?”
The troll held out the cup he clutched, and the man snatched it from him.
Mirra sensed the foulness of the brew within it and cried, “Do not drink that!”
He glared at her, his lip curling. “Why not?”
“It is bad for you!”
He stared at her in undisguised amazement. “Why should you care?”
“Of course I care. I am a healer.”
“You are mad.” He drank the liquid and threw the cup aside. “Tie her up!” he ordered the gnomes. “I see I will have to deal with her myself. Make sure the ropes are rough and tight. I want her to suffer.” His icy gaze raked her. “Perhaps she will afford better entertainment than I thought, since she does not die so easily.”
The gnomes dragged Mirra to the forest’s edge and bound her to a tree, the ropes cutting into her skin. She sagged in her bonds, wondering what was in store for her next. The situation made no sense. She had done nothing to earn the strange, handsome man’s wrath, yet he wanted her dead.
Demon Lord Page 9