Bane’s movements woke Mirra, and she opened her eyes as he left. She whimpered when she tried to move. Her joints had seized up, and the ache in her arms had spread to her shoulders. The ship’s gentle swaying told her that the storm was over, and the cries of gulls came through the open porthole, which could only mean that they were close to land. Bane returned within a few minutes and stood over her, scowling. She lowered her gaze to his boots, wondering if he would kick her.
“He still lives,” he said. “You had someone else give him the antidote.”
She looked up. “No. How could I? He is not dead because it was not poison.”
He bent and slapped her, making her ear ring. “You are lying. You sent a message to one of his cronies. I know you witches have tricks like that. You had better start telling the truth, or I will make you suffer every time you lie. Who did you send to save him? Tell me!”
“No one.”
“What are you, a complete moron? You dare to defy me? You, a weak human female, dare to lie to me? Tell me the truth!”
Mirra flinched as he gripped her hair and forced her to face him. “I am! I was not trying to kill you, that is the truth.”
She thought he would snap her neck, but he released her and said, “Perhaps not. Indeed, maybe you are telling the truth. This was not the poisoned cup, but a harmless one, meant to lull me into a false trust of you, so later you could give me the deadly one with impunity. A fair plan, I suppose, ensuring you would not be found out. But let me assure you, I will never trust you, and you will not live long enough to see your scheming through.”
Bane strode out, leaving her tied to the table for the rest of the day. By the time he returned in the evening, she ached all over, her skin burnt where the ropes chafed her and hunger made her queasy. He untied her and made her sit on the bed, where she slumped, tears leaking down her cheeks. She rubbed her numb hands to force the blood back into them and bit her lip at the pain. Bane’s eyes were still bloodshot, and he regarded her with deep contempt.
“We have reached the island. Tonight, I will break the ward, and you will accompany me.”
Mirra nodded, not daring to speak lest she incur his wrath again. Bane ordered the troll to bring food, and settled down to eat his usual foul concoction while Mirra nibbled hard bread. When the frugal meal was over, Bane donned his cloak and stalked out, leaving her to follow.
The ship floated upon a calm sea, anchored close to a rocky island dark with moon-cast shadows. The full moon rose at the end of a glinting silver path, bathing the jagged land with ghostly light. Waves lapped at the barnacle-encrusted rocks that plunged into the sea, and only a few feet separated the ship from the rocky shore, a gangplank spanning the gap. The men had lassoed jagged outcrops to moor the ship, using long, stout boathooks to keep the vessel from grinding its timbers against the sharp stones. The demon steed trotted across the gangplank first, its hooves striking sparks from the rocks when it reached the shore. Bane strode after it, and Mirra followed.
Ashore, the sharp volcanic rocks stabbed her bare feet, and she hobbled. Healers did not wear shoes; their contact with the earth enhanced their natural powers, which also protected them from any harm. Now her feet bled, and she sobbed as she stumbled after him. Bane mounted the stallion and rode towards the granite cone of the old volcano. Mirra tried to ignore the pain that knifed through her feet at every step, biting her lip until she tasted blood. The steed returned with a clatter of hooves, and Bane looked down at her, chuckling.
“What is the matter, witch? Are the rocks too hard for you?”
She nodded, her head bowed.
He grunted. “I am not waiting all night for you.” He held out a hand. “Come. You will ride with me.”
She knew this was not a charitable gesture, and stepped back, wincing as a rock stabbed her. “I cannot.”
He laughed and jumped down. “Yes you can, witch.”
She backed away. “It will burn me.”
“You think I care?” He seized her arm and dragged her towards the fiery stallion. She hung back, even though she knew her attempt to resist him was useless, and the rocks flayed her feet. The demon steed snorted a foul exhalation that made her gag, and its dark power caused her stomach to try to crawl into her throat. She whimpered as its flames licked her, and Bane lifted her onto its back. Mirra leant over and vomited as he leapt up behind her.
“That is a revolting habit you have, girl.”
Mirra groaned, almost fainting from the evil that battered her in foul waves.
Bane sniggered. “She is sorry, Drallis, for vomiting on you.”
The steed leapt forward, and Mirra clung to its mane, surprised that it did not scorch her hands. She fought a strong urge to turn and cling to Bane to escape the steed’s raw evil. Although she knew nothing about demonic creatures, she sensed that the demon steed’s touch would have killed her had it not been for Bane’s presence, and her gentle nature found a deep font of gratitude for his protection. The rocks passed in a blur, but she was hardly aware of the amazing speed at which they travelled. Her stomach heaved, and a strange darkness clouded her vision.
It vanished when Bane pushed her off, and she fell onto stony ground, bruising her thigh and arm. Climbing to her feet, she swallowed the sour sting of bile and gazed around at a crater. Moonlight silvered a lake surrounded by short greyish grass and stunted trees. An untidily thatched stone house huddled on the shore, a vegetable patch beside it.
Bane headed for the house, and the demon steed stood like a burning statue where he left it. Mirra hobbled after him, the grass cool under her bleeding feet, her fresh bruises aching. As he approached the dwelling, a man stepped out to confront him. Pure white hair and whiskers framed a gnarled countenance with a hooked nose and sunken eyes. A flowing blue robe picked out with intricate silver designs hung from bony shoulders, pinched at the waist by a white belt. The man’s knobbly hands gripped a carved staff some six feet tall, which he used to aid his shuffling steps as he moved towards Bane, into an open area next to the lake’s black beach.
The Demon Lord stopped and eyed his adversary. The old man spoke in a reedy, quavering voice. “At last you come, Bane. I have awaited you for three hundred years.”
Bane spat, his lip curling. “You think to stand in my way, old man?”
“I shall strive to do what I can, be it not much. It is to that which I have dedicated my life,” he stated phlegmatically.
“Then your end is nigh, mage.”
The old mage shuffled to within ten feet of the Demon Lord, then stopped and grounded his staff. “Perhaps, but every time you use your power, the pain becomes a little worse, does it not?”
“What of it?”
The mage sighed, tugging at his beard with a knobbly hand. “The Black Lord planted the seeds of your destruction when he gave you his power, Bane. Did you really think he would share this world with you once he had won it?”
“I am his son.”
“You are not.” The mage shook his head, his long beard wagging. “You are human, like me, like her, like the people you were sent to kill. He is using you to break the wards, and by the time you have completed your task, you will be dead. He has no use for you after that. He had to make you as powerful as he is. He will not suffer you to live.”
“You lie.”
The mage leant on his staff. “No, I tell you the truth. You are one of us. My small effort will speed your destruction. It is all I can do, for I will surely not persuade you. Only the healer can -”
Bane raised his hands in a sweeping motion, and black fire burst from them. The frail old man reacted with surprising speed, raising the staff. Blue light flared from it and met the black in a swirling inferno of opposing forces that hissed and crackled around the mage. He chanted, his reedy voice almost lost in the sound of the warring magic, and his blue power grew brighter, forcing back the black. Bane gestured, and the dark fire became fiercer, eating away at the blue.
Mirra sat down as her legs turned to jelly, rive
ted by the amazing battle. The mage chanted again, raising his staff higher, and the blue magic turning a vivid, sparkling hue, as if fragments of summer sky had entered the fray. Like a war between day and night, the light and dark raged together, each seeking to blot out the other. Bane ground out two harsh words, and the dark power closed like a giant fist, crushing the brilliant blue within it. The mage cried out and held the staff up with quivering hands, warding off the black power with a supreme effort. His ululating cry seemed to spur deep fonts of power from him, and flames of pure cyan lashed outwards, burning away the shadows that endeavoured to smother it.
As Bane sought to quell the mage’s fire, the power he wielded seemed to escape his control. Mirra gasped as the Demon Lord transformed. Great bat wings of spectral darkness appeared over him, and his features darkened and elongated into slavering jaws lined with black teeth. His eyes flared red, and curled horns swept up from his brow. He seemed to swell, and she blinked, hardly able to believe her eyes. A monstrous form mantled Bane, as if the magic he wielded consumed him.
The creature he had become loomed over the mage. Its vast wings spread, and curled horns scythed the air as it tossed its head, stepping nearer to the cowering magician. The old man fell to his knees, his face creased as he held the staff up with both hands, but he was clearly doomed. As the black fire ate away at the blue shield around him, he raised his head and shouted a word in a frail treble.
“Lady!”
A sob closed Mirra’s throat as his entreaty echoed around the crater, and, as it faded, his magic turned pure white. A blinding incandescence of sparkling lines tore aside the darkness and made Bane stagger. The horrible illusion in which he had clad himself warped into something so vile that it was beyond her wildest imagination. The beast’s flesh was stripped away to reveal its misshapen bones, and its eyes’ red glow filled its grinning, cadaverous skull. Skeletal wings arched over it like great bony hands clawing at the sky.
The demon steed roared and reared as Bane made a vicious, cutting gesture with a mighty clawed arm. A blast of black fire erupted from him and shredded the mage’s pure magic. The old man became radiant with white fire. His form was engulfed, and he stood like a shining statue, arms outstretched, then he transformed to a point of brilliant light. It shot upwards like a comet, trailing sparkles of white fire, and vanished into the night sky. A thunderclap rolled around the crater, and the staff hit the ground with a clatter. A deathly hush fell as the echoes faded.
Bane sank to his knees, his head bowed and his hands curled as if burnt. The monstrous illusion that mantled him writhed and lashed for a moment longer, then dissipated, leaving behind the bowed form of the Demon Lord.
Mirra rose to her feet and hobbled over to him. “Bane? Are you all right?”
Afraid to touch him, she knelt in front of him and tried to see what was wrong. His pain hurt her, and she fought the urge to run away as she had from the dying dragon. He gasped, sweat trickling down his face, his eyes screwed shut. Mirra’s hands fluttered helplessly, unable to aid him. She still cringed inwardly at the horrible memory of the creature he had become. His hands shot out to grip her wrists, and she cried out as his touch brought her exquisite agony.
“Suffer, healer,” he grated. “Share my pain.”
Mirra stared in horror at his eyes. The black had drained from them, but the whites were crimson, and she fought to break free of him. She groaned as his frigid fingers bit into her skin.
“What did he mean?” he demanded. “Only the healer can what? Finish the sentence, witch!”
“I do not know!” she wailed, writhing. “I do not know, I swear!”
“Only the healer can stop you. That is it, is it not?”
“No! Please let me go!” Mirra sagged as the agony overwhelmed her, threatening to rob her of her senses.
Bane hurled her aside with a snarl of disgust, and she curled into a ball, whimpered and pressed her arms to her belly to warm them, for his touch seemed to have frozen them. He rose a little clumsily and stood over her.
“Why did his magic turn white? Answer me!” He kicked her, making her grunt.
“He – he called upon the Lady.”
“What Lady? Who is she?”
“She is the goddess. She is good, as the Black Lord is evil.”
“You worship her?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you call upon her?”
She sat up, gasping. “I do not think so.”
“As you saw, even your goddess cannot defeat me, so do not try.”
“What if the wizard spoke the truth about you?”
“It is lies.” His hands clenched. “My father would never betray me. I am his son. He is proud of me. It is all vicious lies, just like yours, meant to turn me against him. Do you mistake me for a fool?”
She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”
“Where did he go?”
She looked across at the spot where the mage had fought. Nothing remained but his staff. “The Lady took him.”
“Physically?”
“No, he is ash. She took his soul.”
Bane snorted and went down to the lakeshore to stare out across the water. Mirra was numbed by the shock of his transformation and the pain he had inflicted upon her. The demonic illusion had undoubtedly struck terror into the old mage’s heart, thereby weakening his magic. Yet such a beast did not come from imagination. Bane must have seen one in the Underworld. She shivered at the thought of the monsters that dwelt below, perhaps even worse than the one Bane had conjured from his memory.
The enormous power he wielded stunned her. Even what she had witnessed tonight was probably only a fraction of it. The agony that accompanied it was horrific. It seemed impossible that anyone could withstand such torture and remain sane. Her mouth dry, she hobbled to his side and scooped up the warm, sulphur-scented water to drink. A glimmer in the lake caught her eye, and she focussed on it. A pale blue pentagram shimmered deep under the water.
Bane frowned at it. “The third ward.”
Demon Lord Page 38