Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Just after dawn, a gaudily dressed herald came to the town to deliver the challenge. It was addressed to ‘The Heinous Destroyer, Slayer of Women and Children, Despoiler of the Land, Son of the Black Lord’. Bane chuckled at the well-earned titles. The Earl of Timon, it seemed, wished to meet Bane’s army in the fields around the town for a glorious battle. Bane laughed at the pompous proclamation, drawing much amusement from the plight of the luckless herald, who strived to appear fearless whilst preventing his knees from knocking together.

  Bane toyed with him awhile, shooting him venomous looks that made the man sweat and start. Then Bane jumped up and strode over to the herald, who appeared to be on the verge of bolting. The man seemed likely to drop dead from sheer panic if Bane touched him, so he contented himself with looming over him instead, chuckling at the poor man’s quaking.

  If the herald had been ordered to show no fear, he failed miserably, but Bane’s behaviour gave Mirra a rare insight into the workings of his mind. She knew he enjoyed inflicting pain on others, but he seemed to revel in their fear as well, and she wondered if the two were linked. Did he torture people because they feared him, or to make them fear him? Was that why he seemed to enjoy her pain less, because she was less afraid of him than most? She longed to ask him a hundred questions, but knew she would receive few, if any, answers.

  When Bane tired of his sport, he sent a terse agreement back with the ashen-faced herald. He smiled as the man scuttled away. His forces outnumbered the Earl’s men three to one, and she sensed that he would enjoy the spectacle.

  Mirra cringed inwardly at the prospect, wishing she could stay at the inn and not be forced to watch the carnage. The air demon’s threat prevented her, however. She had to remain close to the Demon Lord, or die. He did not care either way, so he said; the choice was hers. Bane sent orders to his captains, then left the inn and rode to the edge of town. She followed, standing beside him while his troops formed up into ragged companies. They slouched into position, muttering and shuffling, adjusting ill-fitting armour and rattling rusty swords. Those who were unarmed simply stood and scratched at lice or picked their teeth.

  As Bane addressed his captains, who gathered at a safe distance, Mirra looked up at the grey sky, attracted by a raven’s cawing. The bird circled above her, then swooped low, and something fell at her feet. She picked it up, and found a silk-wrapped golden pearl. As soon as she unwrapped it, the power soaked into her palm in a rush of warm joy. Her aches and bruises vanished, and she breathed a silent word of thanks to her sisters at some distant abbey as the bird winged away, its task complete. She experienced a twinge of guilt, for Bane did not want her to have power, but many would be wounded in the coming battle, and she was glad that now she could heal them.

  Bane was too busy to notice the change in her, and she followed when he rode out to where the houses thinned and ploughed fields lined the road behind low stone walls. The army slouched past in disorderly ranks, giving the demon steed and its rider a wide berth. Mirra waved to Benton, receiving a sad smile. As the last of the warriors trudged past, the dark creatures slunk into the shadows of the buildings behind them, gathering at the edge of town, red eyes glowing in doorways and alleys. Any daylight would burn them, so they preferred to keep their exposure to a minimum.

  The Earl of Timon’s knights appeared from the woods on the far side of the green fields, clad in shining armour and bright tabards, banners snapping bravely in the wind. The warhorses, caparisoned in silver-studded harness and polished chain mail, cavorted, held to a walk by their riders. Heads decked with bright plumes tossed, and manes and tails flew. The Earl rode a tall, milk-white stallion, his blue and white livery standing out against the backdrop of bay and chestnut horses, his polished armour glinting.

  Foot soldiers marched behind the line of knights, rank upon orderly rank, long pikes resting on their shoulders as they advanced to their positions. As they fanned out, they edged the dark forest with a band of bright colour and flashing steel. They were a marvellous sight in all their finery, Mirra thought, their battle pennants held proudly aloft, but no amount of courage would win this battle. They were doomed, walking dead men, and she wished they would flee, but knew they would not.

  By contrast, Bane’s motley rabble strode out with little ceremony. They carried no banners, blew no horns, and none rode horses. Their dirty clothes were dark and ragged, their weapons poor, dented and scarred from ill-use. They dwarfed the Earl’s army through sheer numbers, however; a dark mass that spread across the green fields like a foul black and red tide. Bane smiled as his men reached the halfway mark and milled around. The trolls beat their fists on the ground, setting up a dull thudding, while rock howlers bounced and whooped high shrieks of feral glee. The men, not to be outdone, beat their swords on their shields and chanted Bane’s name.

  The Demon Lord’s army seethed in a spreading mass across the town’s grazing fields, shouting their battle cries. Beyond them, the Earl’s smaller force waited, stony faced, as the last of the foot soldiers emerged from the woods and formed up into their ranks. The barked orders of their captains came faintly through the deep-throated chanting of Bane’s men, and mounted men cantered up and down the ranks, waving banners and extolling the soldiers to fight the evil in front of them. As the last soldiers took up their positions, the knights returned to their commander’s side.

  The Earl of Timon raised his sword and brought it down in a flashing arc. Horns blared, drums thundered, and his army roared as his charger sprang into a gallop. The warhorses charged, the knights’ lances lowering in a line, perfectly drilled. The Earl led them, a shining figure giving courage to his men as they thundered across the fields towards the black sea of gesticulating, stamping death. The foot soldiers raced down the hill behind the knights, beating their swords on their shields and giving vent to blood-curdling war whoops in an effort to drown out the enemy.

  The two armies met with a terrific crash, and Mirra winced as screams erupted. Horses fell and men shrieked as they died on sword point or lance tip. The cavalry charge carried the horses well into the seething melee of Bane’s army, where scores of slashing swords cut them down. A minute after the knights joined battle, the foot soldiers ploughed in, staying in their ranks, protecting each other with shields as they stabbed and slashed at the rabble. The dark creatures quit the shelter of the buildings and rushed to join the fray, those that could fly swooping into the battle from above. The rest slithered, crawled or ran on strange stilt-like legs, giving chilling gibbers of glee. Since they ate human meat, today’s battle would also be a feast.

  The Earl wielded his sword in skilful strokes, cutting down any who came near him, a knot of knights trying to protect him. The ranks of foot soldiers pushed slowly forward, leaving piles of dead in their wake. The knights split into groups, swords flashing as they fought the swarms of men and beasts that sought to drag them down.

  Sometimes a horse would fall, gutted, and its rider would vanish into the mob. Riderless, injured warhorses bolted from the battle, some to founder shortly after they reached safety. Still, the Earl fought on, a brave figure atop the rearing stallion, his knot of knights dwindling. Gaps appeared in the ranks of foot soldiers, and many formed circles of shields, keeping the mob at bay.

  A sob closed Mirra’s throat, and she turned away, unable to watch the carnage and longing to flee.

  “What fools they are.” Bane’s scathing comment reached her over the battle’s roar. “Fighting each other, for nothing. Especially the idiots who follow me. They fight their countrymen, but they too will die in the end.”

  Mord sat nearby in a house’s shade, idly scratching his hairy hide, the brown leather satchel he always carried beside him, and she wondered why he was not fighting. Behind her, the battle raged on, and she was unable to block out the screams, crashes, roars and clatter of the locked armies, even by plugging her ears. Fortunately, they were too far away for her to share their pain, but she heard it. It seemed endless, and she prayed for it to stop. When
her legs grew weary, she sat down on the hard, dusty earth, gazing at the empty town and the blue-grey sea beyond.

  Gulls wheeled and mewled, swooping to snatch fish from the waves. Several times, she glanced around to make sure Bane was still there, sitting on the stallion, surveying the raging sea of death, where more and more, black and brown swamped the Earl’s bright colours.

  A faint hiss and a thud made her look back. Bane swayed atop the demon steed, an arrow protruding from his chest. Another followed it, hitting his arm, and the steed reared, roaring as one struck it, consumed in a flash of fire. Bane grasped the shaft that impaled his arm, but another thudded into his side, and he released the first with a grunt. His eyes glinted as he sought his attackers, and three men fled from the shelter of a nearby wall, their blue and white uniforms standing out against the brown earth of a ploughed field. They must have crept along the low wall to get within arrow shot of the Demon Lord, in a brave and daring attempt to kill him.

  Bane raised an arm, and dark fire flashed from his fingers, burning the fleeing men to ash before they had taken three steps. Bane struggled to pull out an arrow, but it was deeply embedded, its barbs hooked into his flesh. He slid off the stallion, and Mirra sat frozen as he walked towards her. Blood poured down his chest and hip, soaking his shirt. Galvanised by his need, she jumped up and ran towards him, collided with another and fell. Mord sprawled over her, a pot bouncing from his hands.

  Bane sank to one knee, his face an ashen mask of pain. “Witch! Is this how you plan to kill me?”

  Mirra scrambled to her feet, anguished that he could think such a thing. Mord grabbed the pot and sprinted to him, placing it in his hand before scuttling away. Bane swayed, trying to undo his tunic’s ties with shaking, fumbling fingers. Giving up, he ripped the shirt open, exposing the wound from which the arrow protruded. Fortunately, it had not been a direct hit. The arrowhead was lodged just under his skin, forming a bluish lump.

  Drawing his dagger, he cut into his flesh to release the barb and pulled it out. Blood streamed from the wound as he dropped the weapon, fumbled the pot open and scooped out a dollop of the green balm to smear on it. The fresh rune scars glowed, and Mirra shook herself from the fascination of his brutal self-doctoring to run and kneel beside him.

  “Let me help you.”

  “Get away from me,” he snarled, struggling to reach the wound in his flank, ripping the shirt away when it hampered him. He dug the dagger into his skin, cutting again to release the barb.

  She flinched at the pain he was inflicting upon himself. “I can reach better than you.”

  “Do you really imagine I am foolish enough to put my life in your hands?”

  “Bane, please, I will not hurt you.”

  He grimaced as he jerked out the second arrow. The runes flared, blackness seeping into his eyes. “You tried to stop Mord.”

  “It was an accident! I did not see him.”

  Bane rubbed the green gel into the wound in his flank, then picked up the dagger again. One arrow remained, deep in his biceps. He lifted the dagger to cut it out, but his hand shook, and he cursed. She winced as he made a savage stab at the arrowhead, gashing his skin. More blood flowed as he dug into his flesh, his gritted teeth bared.

  Mirra’s eyes brimmed with tears of pity at the pain he caused with his butchery, wishing she could heal him, pull out the arrow painlessly, as she had done to the deer so long ago. Bane grunted, dropped the bloody dagger and wrenched the arrow out with a savage twist. He swayed, and she thought he would collapse, but he put out a hand to hold himself upright, bowing his head. After a moment, he straightened, picked up the pot again and anointed the last wound, sealing it.

  “A nice try, girl, but I am not that easy to kill.” He glared at her, undoubtedly angered by his weakness, which the trembling of the hand that held the pot betrayed.

  “I am not trying to kill you.”

  Bane climbed to his feet and swung away, tossing the pot to Mord. He surveyed the battle as if nothing had happened, but the effort of standing clearly cost him a lot. Sweat sheened his brow and lines of pain creased the skin around his eyes. His blood dried on the tattered remnants of his shirt, and the runes on his chest glowed faintly.

  Mirra went to stand next to him. “I wish you would let me help. Who would, if you were shot in the back? Everyone is too afraid to come near you, except me.”

  He looked at her. “That is what you are counting on, is it not?”

  “No! What if the arrows had been poisoned?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I believe you would help me.”

  Mirra’s heart pounded, then he lashed out, sending her sprawling, the pain blocked by her power.

  “Help me into my grave. That is what you would do, witch,” he said.

  The pain of his distrust stunned her. Everyone trusted healers. No healer had ever abused that privilege, so why did he suspect her so? She rose to her feet. Mord squatted some distance away, clutching the pot. Bane even trusted Mord more than her. If the troll had refused to give him the pot, he would have died. Mord would not have outlived his master, she was sure. Fear kept the troll obedient. For all his powers, the Demon Lord could not heal himself. His power was destructive. Only good magic could heal, and the foul green salve stopped the bleeding by burning him, sealing the blood vessels. Even now, as he perused the battlefield, he swayed slightly. A normal man would have collapsed from shock and blood loss, but sheer willpower kept the Demon Lord on his feet.

  Becoming aware that the sounds of battle had faded, she looked at the battlefield, wincing at the sight that greeted her. Acres of bodies and groaning, twitching wounded stretched away across the valley. The remnants of the Earl’s army fled, pursued by Bane’s men, but for a few who walked amongst the torn banners and broken lances, smashed shields and dying men, dispatching enemy wounded. Most of the dark creatures had retreated to the shelter of the buildings or trees, except for those that lay amongst the wounded.

  Hurt by Bane’s undeserved wrath, she longed for the comfort of her only friend, Benton. He could be lying out there, in need of her help and eager to receive it. Mirra ran down the road towards the carnage.

  “Come back here, girl!”

  Bane’s angry shout followed her as she raced to the aid of the wounded soldiers lying on the torn and bloody grass. The first man she came to she healed swiftly, moving on to the next as he sat up. None of the Earl’s soldiers survived, but she healed Bane’s men, hurrying between them as quickly as she could. There were hundreds of them, and she despaired at the pain of the ones she had not yet reached. Her legs grew tired from stepping over bodies and slipping on the bloody grass. Her stomach clenched at the stench and ugliness of the battle’s aftermath.

  Some of the injured required help, such as pushing spilt intestines back into their owner’s gut before healing the great wound in his belly. Straightening broken limbs required a great deal of strength, although sometimes the soldier was able to help once she dulled his pain. Her heart ached for the Earl’s young men, some little more than boys, who lay in twisted death, their glazed eyes staring through her. Their shaven faces and polished armour set them apart from the dirty, bearded rabble, and she wished she could save them too. She blessed them as she hurried past, her feet and hands red with blood.

  The stench of loosened bowels and the metallic tang of blood seeped onto her tongue. She had healed hundreds by the time her power waned, and wandered in search of more. A feebly flapping vampire snapped fanged jaws at her, warning her away. Already, the weak light had split its black hide, and brown ichor dribbled onto the grass.

  A weird with a broken back tried to drag itself towards the trees’ shelter, growling. A wight flailed at the ground with useless, spidery wings, its bulging eyes weeping sticky fluid, its broken legs trapped beneath the body of a huge grotesque. A grim lay panting on its back, a sword protruding from its chest, frothy blue ichor bubbling from the wound. Others succumbed to their wounds and the watery light, but she a
voided them, for only those that were almost dead did not snarl or spit in her direction.

  There seemed to be no more wounded men, but in her wandering she came across a groaning horse. The Earl’s grey stallion lay on his side, many wounds in his chest and flanks. Healers scorned none, men and animals were all deserving of life.

  Mirra placed her hands on his flank and released the last of her power in a golden stream. As it drained, she sagged against the stallion’s side, her strength ebbing. Darkness impaired her vision as the beast heaved himself to his feet, and she sank onto the bloody ground. She shivered as a cold breeze touched her, waiting for her strength to return.

  The cold clamped down, accompanied by a terrible foetor, and the air was sucked from her lungs. Icy, tenuous arms clasped her, and a hissing voice sniggered in her ear.

  “End of the line, wench.”

  Mirra was pinioned by the freezing air demon, her lungs empty. Ice formed on her skin, reddening it as it froze the top layers, causing burning pain. The cold bit into her, sinking deeper, her skin cracking, the chill invading her flesh. Blackness closed in, and the stallion squealed, his hooves thudding down nearby.