Mirra stared at the huge, muddy brown river that swirled past, sucking at its banks. Rain sleeted down in cold sheets to soak her gown and make it cling to her slight curves. Her hair, slicked to her head, dripped water onto her face, forcing her to wipe her eyes continually. Bane sat on the demon steed, his thick mane sleek against his narrow skull, frowning and plucking at the shirt that clung to the muscular contours of his chest. Clearly, he hated the rain, yet it seemed to wash some of the evil from him, even reduced his stature as the gleaming palace had not. The water ran down his face, making his long lashes stick together in thick spikes as he brushed water from them. The steed pranced; the rain hissing against its burning hide seemed to cause it great discomfort.
Bane scowled at her. “This is your fault. This is the result of causing the clouds to follow us; eventually they had to drop their foul burden.”
Mirra bowed her head, accepting the blame.
He snorted. “You bore me with your humble ways. You would be more interesting if you showed some spirit.”
Mirra kept her eyes downcast. Bane was in an exceedingly foul temper, and she knew better than to rile him further. He rode across the little clearing to the trolls who waited at the edge of the forest they had just travelled through. He stopped before they retreated and issued orders in a hard voice, accompanied by curt gestures. Mord unpacked the tent, and Mirra dismounted, letting the warhorse graze. Scores of trolls went into the forest and started felling trees. So, he planned to cross the river on a raft. The spate, however, looked far too swollen and strong for that. She shrugged mentally. He was the Demon Lord; nothing was beyond him.
As soon as the tent was up, Bane entered it, and Mirra hesitated for a moment before joining him. He sat on the bed, towelling his hair. She settled next to the wall, striving to hide her shivers. Bane had shucked his shirt and cloak, now he put down the towel and pulled off his boots, wincing as he tackled his injured foot, which was badly swollen and discoloured. She was amazed that he was able to walk on it. The torn skin had healed, but the broken bones would not, for he gave it no rest. Her longing to heal him flared once more. He studied the appendage, then went back to drying himself.
Mirra hugged her knees, trying to warm up. She sneezed and wiped her nose, shooting Bane an anxious glance.
He eyed her. “If you are going to start sniffling, you can go and do it outside, not in my tent.” He flung the damp towel at her. “Dry yourself, you are dripping on the floor.”
Mirra dried her hair, then draped the towel around her shoulders for warmth, since she had no dry gown. Bane donned a fresh shirt, this one patterned with vivid blue designs that matched his eyes. The injuries from the temple had faded to pale pink scars, but the rune scars stood out, angry red. He caught her studying him and glared, his eyes flicking over her, noting a shiver she was unable to hide.
“Cold, girl? Even you do not like this world, although it is your own.”
“No one likes to get wet in the rain.”
“Least of all me.”
Mirra nodded, rubbing her arms. She jumped when Bane threw a blanket at her.
“Stop sniffling and shivering.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
Lying back on the bed, he said, “Give the wet things to Mord to wash and dry.”
She gathered up his shirt and cloak, heading outside to find the troll.
Bane’s voice stopped her at the flap. “Yours too.”
Mirra stripped in the forest, wrapped herself in the blanket and gave the clothes to Mord before hurrying back to the tent before the blanket got damp. Settling down again, she thought Bane was asleep, then noticed the gleam of his open eyes.
Emboldened by his mellow mood, she enquired, “Why are we crossing the river?”
“The next ward is in the Old Kingdom, idiot.”
“But is it not forbidden to go there?”
He smiled. “The people of the Old Kingdom worship my father. They will welcome me.”
“At least you will not have to fight them.”
“No, but I doubt they will like you.”
Mirra tried to imagine what manner of people inhabited the Old Kingdom. The Black Lord’s worshippers had driven the good people from the Old Kingdom long ago, and the river had become the boundary. The prospect of crossing into that place frightened her, although she had only been told that the good people had been forced to leave by others who followed the Black Lord. She wondered what level of depravity they had sunk to over the many decades of isolation.
Knowing the Black Lord’s son, she dreaded meeting them. Her history teacher had skipped over the time of the Great War; only mentioning that many bloody battles had been fought, after which the Lady’s worshippers had left the Old Kingdom. At the time, she had not given it much thought, a few words during a dull history class had held little weight, but now she knew what evil was all about; her eyes had been opened to its abominations.
For a long time, she lay awake, listening to Bane’s breathing while her mind whirled with imagined horrors. Perhaps the dark power had warped the Old Kingdom’s people, as it had the creatures of darkness that shadowed Bane’s army. As if to confirm her thought, a howl shattered the stillness, muffled by the forest but sharp over the river’s soft rushing. It might have been a wolf, except that a burst of high-pitched gibbering followed, like insane laughter. She shivered, and Bane tossed and sighed. Reassured, ironically, by his presence, she pulled the damp blanket closer and forced her eyes closed, blanking her mind. Slowly she sank into a deep, exhausted sleep.
In the morning, they crossed the river on the huge raft the trolls had fashioned during the night, Mirra clad in a clean, dry gown Mord had somehow laundered. Although it remained overcast, no rain fell as they entered the gloomy forest on the far bank. Bane set off immediately, leaving the army to catch up. Mirra started at shadows, imagining dark shapes flitting between the trees all around them, hidden by the gloom. She told herself that these were vampires that had flown across the river, following as they always did, but closer now that they travelled within the dim forest.
Wet humus squelched under the horse’s feet, loud in the unnatural stillness. Thick mist hugged the ground, and the black tree trunks that loomed out of it created an eerie atmosphere. Strings of grey moss hung from the branches, brushing against her with soft, spidery tendrils, leaving icy damp trails. She was glad that the demon steed preceded her, for its fire burnt away the huge cobwebs that appeared out of the mist.
Water dripped on her, making her jump, imagining cold leeches and biting insects. The blighted wood seemed devoid of wildlife, and grey fungus mottled the trees’ rough bark. The ground sprouted pallid growths that reached up like dead hands from under the black leaves. Bane brushed aside the streamers of hanging moss, and she urged to stallion as close to him as he would go.
By the time dusk drew near, Mirra was convinced that the trolls and night creatures were not the only ones following them. Her nape hair prickled and goose bumps rose. Despite her precognition, she swallowed a shriek when a hunched figure stepped from the gloom and bowed to Bane.
“Welcome, Master.” The man prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the ground.
Bane stopped the steed and frowned. “I was wondering when you were going to show yourselves.”
The man cringed, twisting his neck to look up at Bane while remaining on his hands and knees. “Beg pardon, Master. We should have realised you would see us.”
“Yes, you should. Now take me to shelter. I am tired.”
The man nodded and rose to his feet. He appeared to be middle-aged, with thinning hair, a prominent nose, and horrible disfigurements. His large, jutting ears were cut to points, and ritualistic scars covered his leathery cheeks. His breath whistled through a slit, flattened nose, and dark tattoos writhed across his chest, face and arms. Clumsy ornaments made of stone, bone and wood pierced his ears and the skin of his neck, and his hair, twined with gold wire and rough gemstones, hung in limp dirty plaits. His only gar
b was a leather loincloth, and his callused feet were bare.
He bowed again. “I am Orran, high priest of the Black Lord, and it is an honour to serve you.”
Bane gestured, and the man trotted ahead, beckoning to the trees, whereupon others emerged to form an escort around the Demon Lord, glancing up at him with fawning, worshipful eyes. All were thin, dirty and scarred, the young men aged by the disfigurations, alike in their mutilated ugliness. There were only about a dozen of them, armed with long spears. Many shot frowns at Mirra, who shivered at their baleful gaze. They padded beside the demon steed, unmindful of the moss that brushed them or the cobwebs that clung to them. They seemed deformed, their joints knobbly, ribs prominent and backs hunched. All had dark eyes and black hair, as if they were members of the same race or tribe, unlike the people of the New Kingdom, who came in many shapes and colours.
At sunset, they rode into a village that was no more than a cluster of crude huts around an ancient stone temple. Here, the forest humus gave way to hard-packed earth, worn by many feet. The badly thatched mud huts had soot-stained roofs with ill-cured hides draped over them that gave off an unpleasant stench. Clay pots and stone implements were strewn in front of some, and a pile of bones and rotting remains at the edge of the forest added to the smell. Filthy children played in the dirt, and small forest creatures, either tied up or in cages, provided sport.
The temple was built from black, red-streaked stone. Great, carved pillars supported a flat roof, and dressed blocks formed the floor and steps. It loomed huge in the gathering dusk, lighted by torches that gave off acrid black smoke. Carved gargoyles and demon faces adorned its walls; evil runic symbols covered the pillars. A fire in front of the stained altar threw leaping light that brought the horrific sculptures to lurid life.
Trees had invaded the temple grounds, pushing the stones aside, slowly destroying man’s creation with nature’s unstoppable power. Walls were collapsing, their foundations undermined, and cracked pillars leant drunkenly. Moss grew over the ancient stones, and fallen leaves formed rich humus in every nook and cranny. Clearly the people who had once lived and worshipped here had been master builders to construct such an impressive edifice, but the current inhabitants were slovenly and backward, too lazy or ignorant to maintain it.
Men and women clad in rough cloth and leather emerged from the huts and raised their hands, hissing in welcome, their crude baubles clanking. They pressed forward, their matted hair falling into their faces, jerking and bouncing as they danced in celebration. Many held out children and infants, perhaps hoping for Bane’s blessing, but he ignored them, the demon steed snorting fire as he forged through them. They parted before him like a foul sea, their savage grins revealing brown, filed teeth, their glinting eyes rabid with worship.
Bane stopped at the temple steps and dismounted, surveying the crowd. Mirra gave a frightened cry as many hard hands dragged her off the grey horse, pulling her away from Bane.
He frowned. “Leave her!”
The men released her, and she edged through the snarling crowd to his side. Its members’ unwashed stench and skin that glistened with animal grease and soot made her stomach heave. Bane cast her a malicious smile, then turned as Orran approached, grinning and bowing.
“Is she for sacrifice, Master?” he enquired.
“If I say so. Until then, leave her alone.”
The high priest leered, showing pointed yellow teeth. “A healer will be a powerful sacrifice.”
“Indeed, but not now.”
“We have prepared a feast in your honour, Master.”
Bane grimaced and shrugged. “Very well.”
Leaving the crowd to its hissing chant and obscene dance, Bane followed Orran into the temple. Passing the altar, they entered an open paved area surrounded by high, crumbling walls. Human skeletons and decomposing corpses decorated the walls, hanging from rusted iron rings. The grinning skulls of those that had long ago lost cohesion lay amongst the bones at the base of the wall, forming a macabre border, a necromancer’s flowerbed.
Mirra turned to find a half-rotted corpse hanging near her and recoiled, stumbling into Bane. He shoved her away, scowling. She shivered at the strong atmosphere of death and suffering within the walls, the silently screaming skulls that gaped in their shackles. Once the area had been roofed, the broken pillars dotted around it bore mute testimony to that. The smashed roof stones had been cleared away, leaving only some fallen pillars too heavy to move. Wooden carvings of fearsome creatures stood against the walls between the skeletons, their repulsive shapes adding to the hideous ambience.
Orran guided Bane to a row of low seats draped with animal skins of rare beauty, although badly cured, judging by their smell. As he settled on one, a deep booming issued from two mammoth drums hammered by muscular men. Mirra sat on the floor beside him, receiving a dark glance, probably for her earlier gall. Priests and dignitaries filed in, prostrating themselves to Bane before taking their seats.
Lesser officials lined the walls, muttering amongst themselves. The huge fire in the centre of the walled area radiated sweltering heat, and smaller cooking fires ringed it, over which whole animal carcasses hung on spits turned by sweating men. Other men tended to the fires and carved the meat onto platters that they placed it before the seated priests, and Bane.
Bane waved away a proffered platter, turning to Orran, who sat next to him, but out of reach. Even these people were afraid to come close to the Demon Lord, it seemed.
“I do not eat the food of the Overworld.”
Orran looked awestruck, and Mord entered, as if on cue, to place a bowl of foul reddish food and a flagon of wine on the low table before he fled. Mirra rose and handed it to Bane, settling at his feet again. Orran gazed at the food with jealous fervour, as if he longed to try it, probably expecting it to have some special powers. Bane ate with no great appetite, but the priests fell upon the meat and tore at it like dogs. Bane looked bored, and Orran put aside his meat long enough to clap.
A line of naked male dancers entered, their faces painted in a parody of demons, and cavorted to the drumming. Bane watched, uninterested, until nude women entered and paired off with the men. Then his eyes flicked to Mirra, and he watched her as the dancers became frenzied, then sexual. She hid her face in her drawn up knees, and he chuckled.
After the feast, Mirra followed Bane as Orran guided him to a room in the temple, the only one that remained intact. A fire warmed it, and soft furs covered a huge bed. Carved furniture dotted the floor and gargoyles glared down from the corners. Bane surveyed the room, then turned as another priest entered, leading a string of young tattooed girls.
Orran beamed like a hungry shark. “For your pleasure, Master. How many would you like?”
Bane’s brows knotted. “Get out!”
They fled, the girls squealing, and Bane slammed the door behind them. “These fools always think that evil is dirty, diseased and mutilated.”
Mirra squatted by the fire. “Is it not?”
“Demons are not dirty. They are made from the elements.”
“They smell.”
“Yes, but they certainly have no diseases. That is for mortals, and demons are not mutilated, either.”
Mirra sighed, poking the fire with a stick. “These people are lost.”
“They are not lost, they worship my father, but they have fallen into foul habits.”
“Like the dance?”
He smiled. “No, that was quite amusing. I mean trying to resemble demons. They do not even know what a demon looks like. They are not ugly, just different, and no man could ever look like one.”
“He would need six arms and three eyes.”
Bane shucked his cloak and flung it on a chair, then sat on the bed and eased off his boots. “A demon may take on any aspect he chooses, although he cannot change his substance.” He stretched out. “The filth and mutilations are stupid. They do not know how to worship.”
“So you will teach them?”
&
nbsp; He grunted. “I would not waste my time. My father will wipe them out when he rises anyway.”
“But they worship him.”
“They are stupid, dirty humans.”
“Is there anyone he will not wipe out?”
A short silence fell. “No. All mortals are worthless. This will be a world for demons. Now be quiet.”
The floor was exceedingly hard, but Mirra slept a little.
Demon Lord Page 53