Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Bane dismounted and regarded the red dragon. It was a weak, Overworld animal, unable to withstand the forced marches and his weight. In two years, he had used up three of the beasts, and this one was now finished too. Dragons did not eat well in captivity, and liked being ridden even less. The red dragon’s fiery colour had faded and the fierce glow in its eyes had dimmed. It no longer attacked the trolls that fed it, but lay listlessly and ate little. He had to goad it constantly to keep up the appearance that it was still a strong, fierce beast.

  Two wards were broken, and two demons had already manifested on the surface. It was time for a mount that befitted his status. The pale girl sat where Mord had deposited her, watching him. His new mount would terrify her, which promised entertainment, and he smiled at the prospect. He pondered his idea, weighing the benefits against the resulting headache. His mind made up, he turned to the cowering troll.

  “Mord, build a fire. A big one.”

  The troll bowed and scuttled away, an action ill-suited to his huge shambling form. Two other trolls erected Bane’s tent. He preferred to be served by trolls, who seemed to fear him less than most. When the tent was up, he stood in front of it and directed Mord, who had returned laden with firewood, to build the fire close to the tent. He noticed the men who gathered in the shadows and smiled again. Many would probably flee in terror this night, but that did not bother him. His only regret was the headache this would give him.

  When a blaze roared lustily, Bane ensured the girl was nearby, noting her position. She sat as close to the fire as she could, enjoying the warmth. She probably thought he had built it for her comfort, the stupid girl. He strolled over to her, and she looked up with a smile, her eyes soft with trusting gratitude. She did think it was for her. He quelled a smirk.

  “Warm enough?”

  “Yes, Bane, it is lovely.”

  He nodded. “I want you to sit right here, get nice and warm.”

  Her smile widened, and he chuckled. He basked in the fire’s hot caress, the flames licking at his clothes. It could not harm him. The dark power protected him now as it had done in the Underworld, where any Overworld creature would perish within moments from the heat without the Black Lord’s protection. Once Bane had mastered the dark magic, he had no longer needed his father’s shield.

  Raising his arms, he uttered a short chant, no more than a few words of command, spoken in a harsh, guttural tongue. The dark power seemed to burn his blood as it was invoked, and brought its familiar pain and nausea. He lowered his arms as it coursed through him to empower the summoning. The girl stared at him, then her gaze was jerked to the flames as they changed colour.

  A black ring crept outwards from the fire, crisping the grass to ash. The flames changed to deep crimson, shot with black and green as they flared, and men scrambled away into deeper shadows. The girl sat motionless, her eyes riveted to what formed in the fire.

  A delicately chiselled head arose, and a massive, glowing neck took shape, ablaze with a mane of yellow fire. Molten eyes glared, and flared nostrils snorted flame. The demon steed pranced, its hooves scattering coals as it manifested, becoming real. It stepped from the flames, its eyes aglow and neck arched, and Bane gave it its first silent command.

  The demon steed advanced on the girl with mincing steps, flames jetting from its nostrils. The witch gaped at it, apparently too afraid to run. With a roar, the stallion reared over her. Its burning hooves almost grazed her face, thudding into the grass beside her. She scrambled away, raising an arm to ward off its flames as her skin blistered, healing slowly. Silently, he urged the steed closer, and it lowered its head to sear her with its fiery breath. Her shriek was music to his ears, but her next cry was not.

  “Bane! Help me!”

  Cold flashed through Bane like a lance of ice, startling him. His mental command made the stallion leap away with a toss of its head, glaring. He scowled at the girl, furious that her cry had sparked such a strange reaction in him. He strode over to her as she crawled towards him, holding out a hand.

  He slapped it away. “You simpleton! Do not call out to me for help!”

  She glanced at the steed. “It was trying to kill me.”

  “Perhaps one day I will let it. I summoned it, and I control it.”

  The witch paled even more. “You told it to attack me?”

  Bane laughed, her hurt, disbelieving expression restoring his humour. “You are here for my entertainment, witch. When I have no more use for you, I will kill you. Do not ask for my help again!”

  The girl looked forlorn, and he faced the steed, which was the one he wanted: Drallis, one of the more powerful steeds, a mighty creature. It bowed its head, and he smiled. Tomorrow he would ride in style, even if the men slowed him. The sooner he could do away with the rabble, the better.

  Bane pointed at the chained dragon and issued his second command. The steed’s eyes brightened, and it leapt at the Overworld beast. Bane took the girl’s arm and dragged her closer, so she would suffer with it. The dragon woke from its exhausted sleep at the approaching thunder of the demon steed’s hooves and reared up, its mouth agape to reveal its armament of white teeth. The steed tore into it with pounding hooves, and it fought back valiantly, but was no match for the stallion, whose razor hooves cut through its scaly hide like butter. The steed’s fiery breath seared it, making it thrash in the chains as it tore at the steed with sharp teeth. The touch of the stallion’s burning flesh only brought the dragon more pain, however, and it roared.

  Bane shared his attention with the writhing girl, who gasped and whimpered. As the dragon died, she cried out with it, tears streaking her face. When only bloody pulp remained of the beast, the steed tore at the meat. The witch vomited, and Bane flung her away, surprised when she fled into the gloom. He signalled to Mord to bring her back and moved away from her mess. Well satisfied with the night’s amusement, he retired to his tent and flung himself on the bed.

  Only one thing spoilt it, and that was his reaction to the girl’s cry for help. He should have ignored it, not been chilled by it, as if in sudden fear. The headache started, and he shouted for Mord. The troll pushed the girl into the tent, then vanished again to fetch the potion. The shivering witch’s ragged hair straggled around her pale face, and her grass-stained gown was damp with dew. She huddled in the corner, her face buried in her knees. This creature was going to kill him? Impossible. His father had to be wrong this time. She was as helpless as a baby, and little more than a child.

  Mord brought Bane’s potion, and he drained the cup, flinging it out for the troll to pick up. After a while, the pounding in his temples faded to a dull ache behind his eyes. He reached over and cuffed the girl, making her look up.

  “Do not run away from me again,” he said, “or I will put chains on you.”

  “I am sorry. It was just so awful; the poor dragon.”

  “Poor dragon,” he sneered. “It was meant to be awful, lackwit. I enjoy your suffering. Why else do I keep you? Do you think I like you?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I tire of telling you, when you get boring, you die.”

  Bane flung himself back onto the bed, wearied by his use of the power; the ache behind his eyes a constant reminder of its ill-effects. The girl curled up on the floor, and he closed his eyes.