The next day, the Demon Lord rode ahead on the dragon, leading sullen, footsore troops. No one knew where they were going, they just followed Bane. He set a fast pace, and by mid-afternoon Mirra staggered in an exhausted daze, stubbing her toes on roots and stones despite Benton’s arm around her waist. A ripple of excitement went through the horde as it rounded a forest, rousing her from her stupor. She looked up at Benton, who could see over the heads of those in front.
He shot her a guilty look. “It’s an abbey. I’m sorry.”
She patted his hand. “It is all right. Healers do not suffer, and they go to a better place.”
Her sorrow belied her words, for she recognised the countryside now. This was her abbey. Benton’s next words chilled her.
“But he knows how to make them suffer. We told him.”
Mirra stumbled as her knees turned to jelly, and Benton stopped to help her. Horror made her weep, and she could not force herself to take another step. Benton picked her up, his expression grim. As they drew closer, Mirra caught her first glimpse of the abbey, dreading the pain the healers would soon endure. Flowering trees and shrubs surrounded the grey and white building that nestled in a verdant vale, and the fountain in front twinkled in the sun. The grounds were devoid of healers, but the vegetable garden was at the back, and the shrubs in front rarely needed tending.
Benton stopped and put her down. “I won’t take you any closer. Perhaps he’ll spare you that.”
As the dark army poured through the manicured gardens and entered the chapel’s open door, Mirra wondered what her sisters would be doing when they were attacked. Praying to the Lady? Had they seen the approaching army? Would they still be weeding and cleaning, cooking and sewing? Or were they prepared, assembled in the chapel, awaiting death? One thing they would not expect, and that was to suffer. She had betrayed them.
Mord ran up and glared at Benton. “What are you playing at, soldier? The Demon Lord wants the girl with him.”
The troll’s deep, commanding voice and excellent human speech surprised Mirra. When Bane was absent, Mord became truer to his trollish nature, gruff and domineering. Benton stepped aside as Mord pulled Mirra to her feet and forced her to stumble after him. She tried to prepare for the ordeal, steeling herself for the coming pain. The chapel doorway loomed strangely dark, unlighted by the candles that always brightened the goddess’ houses on dull days like today. Bane’s men wandered around the dim interior and exited through the rear door into the inner courtyard.
Bane stood at the altar, the huddled form of a healer at his feet. As Mord brought Mirra to him, he kicked the corpse, his eyes icy.
“Where are they, witch?”
She stared at him blankly. “They are not here?”
“Only this still-warm corpse. I have never heard of healers abandoning an abbey. I have always found them waiting to be slaughtered. Did you tell them you had betrayed their little secret?”
“No.”
“Are they hiding somewhere?”
“No. There is nowhere to hide.”
Bane stepped forward to grip her shoulders, ignoring Mord, who scurried away. “You had better not be lying.”
“I am not. I do not know why they have left.”
Bane shoved her aside and stepped over the body to follow the soldiers out of the chapel. Mord hovered nearby as she knelt beside the dead healer, turned the woman over and revealed a familiar face: Balia, the oldest healer at the abbey, a sweet, harmless lady. The wooden handle of a kitchen knife protruded from her breast. Mirra’s gaze flew to the altar, and fresh tears stung her eyes.
The altar flame had been blown out, signifying the abbey’s abandonment. Undoubtedly Balia had volunteered to stay until the final moment before performing this last despicable act. As the men had entered the abbey, so the light of its holy fire had been extinguished, removing the Lady’s presence. Then Balia had snuffed out her own flame, plunging the knife into her heart and flying to the Lady.
Mirra closed the corpse’s staring eyes and touched her chest in benediction. “Fly swift and safe, Balia, the Lady bless you.”
Mirra began to lay out the body, straightening the frail limbs. As she folded the withered hands on its chest, she noticed something clutched in one of them. Opening the stiff fingers, she discovered a tiny silken pouch. She unwrapped it, and a glowing golden pearl fell into her palm. As it touched her skin, the power soaked into her, bestowing well-being and strength. The pearl vanished, and Mirra bowed her head over the old healer.
“Thank you, Balia, Elder Mother.”
The pearl had been left for her, concealed where only she would find it, for Bane was not interested in corpses. Ellese knew Mirra was with him, and would lay out Balia’s body. The seeress must also know Bane had discovered the secret of harming healers, and that Mirra desperately needed the power she could no longer glean from the sun. Since the day Bane had found her basking, he had made sure the weather stayed overcast.
That was why they had left, and desecrated the chapel by extinguishing the eternal flame. That was why Balia had committed suicide, a sin, so Mirra would not be made to suffer. Silently she prayed to the Lady to forgive Balia. No doubt the healers carried the Lady’s white flame with them, and one day would set it in an abbey again. Mirra smiled at this small triumph, and Elder Mother’s wisdom. Alerted by footfalls, she looked up to find Bane looming over her, his expression livid.
“They are gone, all of them. You warned them, witch. I know you did.”
Mirra opened her mouth to protest, but he smashed her backwards, sending her sprawling on the smooth white floor. Her broken jaw healed as she fell. Bane stalked after her and kicked her, breaking two ribs, which knitted in a warm flash. He kicked her again, breaking her arm. By the time she stopped sliding across the floor, it had healed. The power within her, aroused by her injuries, coursed through her in a soothing glow, and her skin glimmered with her magic’s pale radiance.
Bane stood over her, his nostrils flared and his eyes ablaze. He tore his gaze from her and addressed one of his captains who stood in the chapel’s shadows.
“This place has a cesspit, does it not?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Put her in it, while we raze this witch’s nest to the ground.”
Bane strode away as the captain came forward to pull Mirra to her feet. He led her to the ablution block at the back of the abbey, where his soldiers prised open the cesspit. They gagged and recoiled at the foetor that arose, then threw her in and closed the lid. Mirra held her breath as the stinking muck engulfed her, found the slippery floor and stood. She wiped the filth from her face, but at the first inhalation her stomach rebelled, and she struggled not to vomit. When her sense of smell had adjusted sufficiently for her to stop retching, she waded to a wall and leant against it. The pitch darkness was cold and clammy. Only the squeaking of rats and the faraway sounds of destruction broke the silence.
It seemed like two days that she spent in the cesspit, but it might have been only a day and a night. Several times, she dozed off, and woke as the slime closed over her face. The muck was hip deep, forcing her to stand. Crawling things wriggled over her and invaded her clothes under the sludge, making her squirm and shudder. Hot tears overflowed as she listened to the abbey’s destruction.
Rats ran along ridges in the walls, or clung to the rough bricks. She healed two that were sick, and the others kept her company. They offered to gnaw a hole in the wooden cover so she would have fresh air, but she refused. She hoped she would not be there long enough to need it. The muck dried to a hard crust, and the darkness closed in on her, making it hard to breathe at times. She prayed to the Lady for strength, and clung to the bastion of her unshakeable faith to see her through the ordeal.
At last, the cover was removed, and Mord supervised as Benton and two gnomes hauled her out. Armed with soap, they took her straight to the fountain and scrubbed her until her skin was pink, throwing away the old robe and coat. While they were busy, Mirra contemplated the ruins.
Only walls remained of the once gracious buildings, and the charred remnants of roof timbers jutted from the rubble. Stained-glass windows lay shattered, and statues and paintings were smashed and burnt. The flower garden was trampled to mud and ashes, the fruit trees cut down.
The men who washed her grew still, and she looked around.
Bane regarded her from a few feet away. “Did you enjoy your wallow in your sisters’ dung?”
“No.”
“Good. If they know what I am doing, they now know what happens to you if they run.”
“It will not stop them,” she said.
“Then you know what happens to you if you tell them.”
“I did not tell them.”
He shrugged. “I do not really care. You see, I agreed to kill you if I found another witch to torment. So now you continue to live, and suffer, until I find one.”
Benton helped her out of the water and dressed her in a healer’s gown. Bane strode away, and Benton led her to his campfire, where he gave her food and water. While she ate, he talked.
“He’s found another ward. Had to scry for it, Mord said, but we move out tomorrow. It’s on some island, so we have to get a ship. Only a few of us will be going, but I’ll try to come, to take care of you. The rest of the army will be left behind, to await his return. It’s a fair step, some three days march to the coast.”
Mirra smiled. “I will be all right.”
Benton’s craggy face was remorseful. “He shouldn’t have done that to you. It must have been awful.”
“Wet and smelly, that is all.”
“You’re amazing, healer.”
She sighed. “Just tired.”
He nodded, and Mirra stretched out by the fire and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Benton woke her as dusk sent long shadows to swallow the land. Mord waited to take her to Bane’s tent. The Demon Lord sat on his bed, and turned glacial eyes upon her as she settled on the floor. Mirra ignored his freezing stare and fell asleep again.
Demon Lord Page 21