Mirra stared at the spot where Bane had dived underwater, waiting for him to resurface, his evil task done. A flare of blue light on the shore made her turn. The wizard’s staff was aglow, and she watched it, but it just lay there, shining. The demon steed roared, making her jump. It pranced, tossing its head, its fiery mane swirling about its glowing neck, and trotted over to the staff. Breathing fire, it reared and smashed its hooves down upon the radiant staff. Again and again it hammered the staff, pounding it with frenzied zeal.
The staff shattered with a brilliant flash of blue incandescence and a hissing crack, and the demon steed vanished. The staff lay dull and broken, mere splinters of grey wood.
Moments later, Bane surfaced and came ashore, noticing the steed’s absence. “Where is Drallis?”
“He… It… The staff was glowing, and it attacked it, then there was a big flash and it vanished.”
Bane wrung water from his hair. “Well, well. A canny mage, this one. He linked the ward to the staff. That is why it kept reforming. Had it not been for Drallis, I would not have been able to break it without first destroying the staff. He did not know I would have a demon steed with me.”
“Is it dead?”
“Drallis?” He chuckled. “No, stupid, you cannot kill something that is not alive. He has been banished, gone below. An inconvenience; I do not feel like summoning another now.” He smiled with cold venom. “You will have to walk back.”
The thought of the sharp rocks made her toes curl. “I cannot, Bane. Please do not make me.”
“You idiot, how else will you get down?”
She nodded at the mage’s abode. “I could look for some shoes, or something to wrap my feet in.”
Bane sat down to pull on his boots. “Go on then; otherwise you will bleed to death before we reach the ship, for I will not carry you. And hurry up; I will not wait, either.”
Mirra hobbled to the house and pushed open the creaking door. The interior was poorly furnished, but every bit of wood was carved, and many wooden statues decorated the tables and shelves. Most were of a smiling woman with a gentle face, her hands outstretched. Mirra recognised the Lady’s image in her most popular pose of blessing the multitudes.
This was how the mage had whiled away three hundred years, waiting for Bane. She walked through the cluttered lounge into the bedroom, finding several pairs of sandals, but all far too large. She found several vests in a drawer in the intricately carved wardrobe, and wrapped her feet in two of them. As she stood up to leave, she noticed a mirror over a table in the corner. Fascinated, she moved closer, studying her reflection for the first time.
Another face formed in the mirror, making her jump back with a squeak. The old mage looked out at her, his sunken eyes sparkling with soft green light.
“Mirra. Have courage, child. Do not give up. He will not kill you. He cannot, although he thinks he can. Be strong, and your reward will be great in the end. The Lady watches over you.”
The image faded as dozens of questions invaded her mind, but the mirror was empty save for her own pale, wide-eyed reflection. She shivered. The old house made her skin crawl, and she fled back to the dubious security of Bane.
He smirked at her. “Did you see a ghost?”
“Uh… no.”
Bane grunted and set off towards the crater’s rim, Mirra following. All the way down, she wondered if she had told her first lie. The mage was dead, so it could have been a ghost, but ghosts did not appear in mirrors. If she had told Bane what she had seen, he would have asked what he had said, and that he probably should not know. If she had said that the ghost did not speak, that would have been a bigger lie. She comforted herself that the image in the mirror had not been a ghost.
By the time they reached the ship, Mirra’s cloth shoes were rags, and she hobbled. Bane went straight to his cabin, shouting for Mord, and she went in search of Benton. He was in the crew’s quarters, eager to hear her story, and plied her with sweet cakes while she told it. When her stomach was full, exhaustion made her eyes droop, and she went to Bane’s cabin, wary of hunting demons.
The Demon Lord lay stretched out on the bed, one arm across his face. Sweat dewed his skin and soaked into the black mane that spread across the pillow like ravens’ wings. He glanced at her with one red eye before rolling onto his side, turning away from her. His pain was like fiery needles, making her eyes sting. He bore it in silence, lying quite still, and she moved away to curl up on the floor and sleep.
At dawn, the ship slipped away from the island’s rocky shore, encountering large swells, and Mirra realised that Bane had been controlling the sea around the island, allowing them to moor so close to it. The wind that came up blew towards the mainland, driving the ship before it. This too, was the Demon Lord’s influence. He seemed able to control the weather with consummate ease.
After the first day, which Bane spent in his cabin, suffering the aftermath of the battle, he came up to stroll on deck, ignoring the men, who avoided him. The captain watched his languid perambulations with cold green eyes, making no effort to hide the hatred shining in them. Two days passed in peace, and Bane was remarkably calm.
The unnatural wind blew day and night, speeding the ship back to its harbour. Mirra noticed that Bane’s headache had worn off quicker than usual, and he looked healthier. His eyes cleared and his lips became paler, his skin acquiring a little colour. His mood stabilised to glum surliness, and he ignored her completely. Her bruises faded, and the cuts on her feet closed, leaving red scars.
As they approached land, Bane sank into a black gloom, staying in his cabin until the ship docked. When Mirra tried to talk to him, he ordered her out. The army waited on the wharf, but Bane only emerged an hour after the men and Mirra had disembarked. He ignored them when they chanted his name, and went straight to an abandoned inn. Mirra found him in the common room, two pots and a flask on the table in front of him.
Mirra would have fled, but Bane said, “Come here, girl.” She hesitated, still tempted to run, and he smiled. “How far do you think you will get?”
Defeated, she approached him, flinching when he gripped her arm and pushed her onto a chair. “I was waiting for you. I knew you would come, like some faithful puppy dog.” He tied her to the chair.
“Do not do this, Bane. Do not cut the runes again, please.”
“Be quiet.”
Having secured her, he stripped off his cloak and tunic, then drew his dagger. The rune scars were still raw and red, and the dagger twitched in his hand.
“I used up most of my power saving you, witch. It is your fault I must do this again so soon.”
“I am sorry.” Mirra gazed up into his intense eyes. “Please do not do it.”
Bane leant closer, frowning. Once again, his angelic-demonic aspect struck Mirra, his clear blue eyes blazing in their black fringe of lashes, too beautiful to be evil.
“Indeed, you would like me to be powerless.”
“I want to help you to get better.”
His striking face twisted in a grimace. “Maybe I should carve some runes in you.”
The dagger pricked the side of her neck, and she gulped. He straightened and raised the weapon to cut the first rune on his chest.
The pain was much worse this time. Bane carved the same four runes, touching her as he did so, sharing his pain. She rested from the agony while he scraped off the running blood, then convulsed as he rubbed in the green gel. Her throat grew raw from screaming, and the dark magic he sucked from the shadows made her vomit so much she thought she would choke. He was also ill, as before, but not nearly as sick as she was. Without her magic, the effect of the black power was far worse, chilling her flesh and sinking into her bones. The hallucinations added to her terror, forcing her to shut her eyes to block them out, which increased the agony.
By the time he had drunk the blood and completed the ritual, Mirra sagged, bathed in cold sweat and gasping for air. Bane squatted in front of her, untied her hands and rubbed them across the still-glowing runes
on his chest, slippery with sweat, blood and foul potions. The evil within him was stronger than ever, making her flinch and try to tug her hands from his cold grip.
“Do you still think you can help me, witch?” he asked.
She nodded. “If I had power.”
“That you will never have again, I promise.” He cupped her cheek in an icy palm, smiling when she shuddered and turned her head away. “You do not like my touch, do you? But let us be honest, you do not like me, do you? You just await your chance to try to kill me, not so, little witch? But in the meantime, you are my plaything; my little toy.”
He crooned the words, his eyes piercing in their intensity, as if he strived to see into her soul. His caress would have been seductive if not for his power’s repulsion and his words’ venom. “It must be hard to be my toy, poor little plaything. How I love to hear you scream; it makes it all worthwhile.”
He smiled mockingly. “You claim you want to help me, so do your best to be entertaining, witch, lest I tire of you.” He released her and strode out, shouting for Mord.
It took Bane three days to recover from the ritual, but even then, his eyes were bloodshot again, his lips too red, and his unnatural pallor had returned. With the dark power came his foul temper and brutality, worse than before.
The army remained in the town for several days, and Mirra was glad of the rest. She stayed close to Bane, fearful of demons, and received many slaps and blows. He seemed to relish the fact that she was forced to endure his company in order to gain his protection, and made it as unpleasant as possible. He taunted her, and slipped away when she was not watching, laughing when she came in frantic search of him.
Her pity for him grew with every jibe and blow, for she shared his inner torment as if it was her own. He seemed to find her timid smiles and constant forgiveness maddening. It made his rages worse and his treatment of her more brutal. Several times, the beatings only ended when he knocked her unconscious, and twice he throttled her until she passed out. Sometimes his raised fist did not strike, but usually the blow landed, yet even then he held back, for he had not broken a bone, only inflicted bruises, which, considering his inhuman strength, was quite a feat.
Mirra decided that this was because if she was injured, she would become a burden, so he confined himself to inflicting as much pain as he could without actually crippling her. He did not seem to draw the satisfaction from torturing her that he had done in the past, however. If anything, her suffering appeared to anger him further, making him storm away, leaving her to weep for both of their suffering. At times, she would look up to find him watching her, his expression brooding, and when she did, he usually flew into a rage.
Bane’s mood improved remarkably when a scout came in to report the approach of an army, becoming satisfied and purposeful, excited at the prospect of bloodshed. He ordered the men to ready themselves, and the houses they used for barracks rang with the clatter of steel as they cleaned and sharpened their weapons. Bane summoned another demon steed from the fire, forcing Mirra to watch and laughing at her fear and horror.
This one was as brightly crimson as the first had been black, only it seemed larger, more fearsome than the first. He pronounced its name to be Orriss, and seemed pleased with his choice. Next, he scried the approaching army, counted troops and divined his enemy’s strategy, then scried another ward, rolling three potential headaches into one massive one, which forced him to rest for a day.
Mirra, one eye swollen from a slap he had given her the previous day, her neck aching with bruises, brought a bowl of cold water and a cloth to his room.
He eyed her as she approached his bed. “Get out.”
She hesitated. “I brought some cold water. It will ease the pain.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Please, Bane, let me put some on your brow. It will help.”
He sat up, scowling. “I do not want your damned help! How many times must I tell you? Leave me alone!”
Mirra tilted the bowl so he could see its contents. “It is only water.”
Leaping off the bed, he smashed the bowl from her hands, raising one of his. She gazed up at him through her tears, and he lowered his arm.
“Get out, before I kill you.”
Mirra left, hurt by his constant rejection. Her nature compelled her to try to ease the suffering of others, yet when Bane had a headache, to try was dangerous. At least this time he had not struck her.
Settling down against the wall outside his door, Mirra longed to visit Benton. She missed the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them. She was mindful of the danger of wandering too far from Bane, however, and, except for occasional forays to the kitchen for food, she stayed as close to him as she could. She thought about the life she had always wanted, as a healer in a tiny cottage in the woods. Perhaps when this was all over, she would get her wish.
A cold draught made her shiver, and she looked around for its source. The day was hot, despite the thick clouds, and until now had been airless. A bad smell wafted to her, borne on the cold air, and she wrinkled her nose. Perhaps someone had opened the door of a cellar in which a corpse lay rotting. The smell sickened her, and she swallowed, tempted to go to the window at the end of the corridor to escape it.
As she was about to, Bane’s door was wrenched open, and he strode out to stand in front of her, facing down the corridor whence the cold stench blew.
“Show yourself, Yansahesh; your presence offends me.”
Mirra gasped as a pale fog coalesced in the air, taking on the six-armed demonic aspect. The air demon bowed, its pale eyes aglow with a cold light.
“Greetings, Bane. Your vigilance is laudable, but in such bad taste.”
“I will decide on taste. How dare you judge me?”
“Ah, Demon Lord, I am not as foolish as my brother. I refer, of course, to the wench, a worthless piece of human trash you guard so zestfully. I, of course, have the best chance of killing her, as your father so much desires, after my brothers failed so woefully.”
Bane’s eyes narrowed. “You challenge me?”
“Never.” It gave a hissing chuckle. “You cannot shelter her all the time, like a broody hen with one chick. She has but to stray, and she will die.”
Bane opened his mouth, but the demon vanished, leaving only its smell. He turned to look down at Mirra. “Wonderful. Air demons are probably the worst of all, clever and quick to come and go.”
Bane re-entered his room, and Mirra followed. He poured a cup of wine and sat on a chair, frowning. “He will return. I did not have the chance to banish him.”
“I am safe with you.”
He snorted. “I do not need the aggravation, and I could do without the headache too.”
She bowed her head. “I wish there was something I could do in return for your protection.”
“My protection! You have to be the stupidest creature in the world. I deny you the release of death, and give you suffering instead, and you thank me?”
He paused. “Tomorrow we go to battle. That is when he will strike, as soon as he thinks I am distracted. Unlike the earth and fire demons, he can kill you swiftly, since you have no power. Had you been powerless then, Mealle’s glance would have reduced you to ashes, and Yalnebar’s first blow would have crushed you. The water demon, Amnon, could only drown you. Water demons are not very powerful, and, even without your power, you seem immune to mine. Yansahesh can kill you in a few seconds.”
“Will you let me have some power?”
“No. If you want so much to live and suffer, it is up to you to stay close to me. If you wander off, it will be your last mistake.”
“But you will be riding, might you not leave me behind?”
Bane chuckled. “Where do you think I am going? You think I will ride into battle, slashing with my trusty sword? In case you have not noticed, I do not possess a sword, nor do I fight. That is why I have an army, to do the dirty work for me and spare me a headache.”
She nodded,
comforted. The thought of Bane, a bleeder, amongst all those sharp weapons horrified her, but he obviously knew the danger. He poured more wine and settled back, brooding.
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