Bane woke her when he opened the door to admit the cowering troll with breakfast. She ate the sweet bread and pastries with keen appetite, having consumed nothing the night before. Bane picked at his food without much enthusiasm, leaving most of it.
Orran and three other priests waited outside, and prostrated themselves when Bane emerged. Their soot-smeared, tattooed faces were more repulsive than ever in the daylight. Bane ignored their effusive greetings and marched outside, leaving them to scuttle in his wake. People scattered when he emerged, and only then did he turn to the high priest.
“Gather your men. You will help me to fulfil my task.”
Orran fell to his knees. “Yes, Master! You honour us with your presence. Your need of us is most gratifying.”
“I do not need you. I only make use of you.”
Bane left the grovelling priest and mounted the demon steed, but the grey stallion was nowhere around. Mirra called to him, finding the warhorse waiting in the forest, unwilling to enter the village. She followed Bane on foot to the trees, and there mounted the horse. The horde gathered their few possessions and fell in behind her, the men of Orran’s tribe bringing up the rear. Orran led them, grinning and swaggering. Mirra pitied them, for she had no doubt that Bane was leading them to a grisly end. The dark creatures that slunk through the forest around them drew many fearful glances from the new recruits, but the malformed followers kept their distance.
The Demon Lord led them far through the gloomy forest, up hills and through valleys. Orran’s enthusiasm wilted in the damp heat of the day, as did his men’s. As they travelled away from the river, the forest grew less gloomy and damp, and younger trees replaced the looming, moss-draped giants. The dimness gave way to dappled grey light, the overcast sky grim through the leafy canopy. Occasionally, they came across an ancient, rough-barked tree standing alone in a clearing, as if the rest of the forest shunned it. The trees thinned, and they crossed glades of bracken and grass, catching glimpses of deer. The last giant tree they passed lay fallen, blasted by lightning, and saplings sprouted from its rotting remains as the forest reclaimed the glade from which the massive tree had kept it.
At midday, they arrived at the lip of a deep chasm, where Bane stopped. Mirra rode up to the edge and looked down. Bones covered the bottom of the gorge in jumbled piles, heaped against the rocky sides. The huge bones of dragons mingled with human and animal skeletons, the bleached skulls of former adversaries piled together in death. Older bones pushed through the vegetation, grey and crumbling, newer ones gleamed ivory white. A broad swathe down the centre of the chasm had been trampled to grey dust, as whatever creature lurked below traversed to and from its lair. More recent kills mouldered, rotten flesh peeling from bones. A few fat crows feasted on them, but they were making slow work of it, and no larger, four-footed scavengers braved the chasm, it seemed.
Orran came over, puffing, and stopped at a respectful distance from Bane, the soot on his face streaked with paler runnels where sweat had washed it off.
“Master, what do we do here?” His black eyes darted.
Bane smiled. “You are going to kill the dragon.”
“We? Master, it’ll slay us all. You have the power, but we’re mere mortals.”
The Demon Lord looked down at Orran with something akin to loathing. “I will not waste my power slaying a beast. You will do it, so I can break the fifth ward.”
Orran fell to his knees. “Master! I beg you, spare us! That’s a great dragon. Men cannot slay it.”
“I know what it is, and it can be slain, if there are enough of you.”
Mirra’s eyes stung as the ugly little man raised pleading hands, his face ashen beneath the dirt and garish tattoos.
“Lord, I beg you, have mercy!”
Bane frowned. “I have no mercy, fool. If you serve the Black Lord, you will do my bidding, if not, I shall kill you myself.”
Orran cringed, his eyes wide, then abased himself. “It shall be as you say, Master. We will die for the Black Lord, with honour.”
Bane gazed into the chasm again. Orran hastened back to his men, clutching the purported honour he had so quickly gained under the threat of death, and a keening arose from them. Bane’s captains, who had come closer to hear his words, took his instructions to the rest of the army. The trolls and goblins muttered, and the rock howlers howled and jabbered. Mirra had not heard the rock howlers’ banshee wailing before, and it made her hair stand up.
Bane’s lips twitched into a slight, cruel smile. “This should be entertaining.”
The doomed men filed into the chasm, their faces drawn. All hoped, Mirra knew, to be amongst the lucky few who survived and might be rewarded for this day’s work. They crunched over the strewn bones, hefting their long spears, eyes scanning. The trolls walked bent-legged, their axes trailing, while goblins and rock howlers howled and gibbered.
Grims and weirds flitted through the shadows amongst the vegetation, wights found shady crannies in the rock walls. The leaders paused for a brief consultation, then dispatched some troops along the sides of the canyon to hide in the undergrowth, joining their red-eyed comrades. A smaller group of about fifty men continued up the centre, clutching their weapons in white-knuckled fists. At the far end was a dark area, partially hidden by trees, which must be the lair.
The men sidled closer, poised, crab-like, to flee, and the tension mounted as they neared the cave. Some bolted prematurely, and their jeering comrades called them back. When they were almost at the entrance, the air reverberated with a huge hiss. Something silver and gold shot from the cave like a flood of precious metal. The dragon emerged into the daylight in a burst of flashing colour, and its beauty awed Mirra.
Brilliant silver, gold and red copper gleamed in swirling patterns on a sinuous body that was still emerging from the cave when the soldiers had fled halfway down the gorge. Shining gold striped a rich copper head, while silver rimmed the glaring, slit-pupilled emerald eyes and flaring red-lined nostrils. A crown of silver spines sprouted between silver-trimmed ears, continuing down its back in ever-smaller protrusions that became mere lumps near its tail. Short, gold-striped legs, tipped with silver claws, propelled the great dragon along the chasm at an amazing speed.
It opened tooth-lined jaws, and its throat swelled like a bullfrog about to croak. A great blast of yellow fire seared from its mouth, and the fleeing soldiers died shrieking, only a few escaping by diving into the scrub on the canyon’s sides. The dragon’s beauty and the horror of the soldier’s deaths transfixed Mirra. It slowed and approached the corpses, sniffing them. Its scales flashed, and it filled the chasm like a river of precious coins swirled artistically by a frozen current. Its chiselled, dished head lifted to gaze around. There was nothing evil about this ancient, wise natural creature.
Mirra could not bear to see it slain, and sent a silent warning in the flute-like dragon tongue. The beast glared at her in arrogant disbelief, then the troops boiled out of the undergrowth, charging it with spears poised, daggers raised and axes swinging. The dragon reared, its long neck arched towards its puny attackers. Its throat swelled, and bright fire razed the troops, killing dozens. Others reached it, daggers and axes ringing on golden scales, spears seeking passage between the armour. The dragon spun, spouting fire, its brilliant eyes darkening as its pupils dilated. More soldiers died, but others still attacked, some sliding their weapons between the scales to draw blood.
Deep crimson stained the copper-gold scales, and the dragon hissed. It reared up higher, raising its forefeet off the ground, and men rushed to attack its exposed belly. The beast dropped, crushing them, and turned its head to burn more with a blast of fire. Trolls swung their huge axes in mighty blows, clanging against the metal scales. Rock howlers swarmed over the dragon like a red pelt, stabbing their daggers between its scales. Dark forms sprang, shambled or loped to join the fray, and vampires took flight. The dragon thrashed and hissed, throwing off the dark creatures that clung to it, tearing at its bright scales with claws and teeth,
even as they keened and bled in the hated daylight.
Mirra’s bile rose and she turned away, unable to watch anymore. She sensed the dragon’s fury, mixed with confusion and surprise, thankfully too far away to share its pain. The screams of dying men, trolls and goblins, mixed with the dragon’s hisses and explosions of fire, drifted up from the ravine. Bane remained on the rim, watching with cold interest.
Mirra dismounted and sat with her back against a tree, silently urging the dragon to flee. At first, only its fury answered her, but as time passed, this changed to grudging respect. Still it fought on, unwilling to be driven from its home. The rabble was like ants to it, easily killed, but too many to slay before they defeated it; sheer weight of numbers won victories of sliced hide and torn off scales from unprotected flanks. It grew desperate, fear overtaking its fury. A great dragon was a formidable beast, capable of defeating large groups of men, but this one fought an army. Smoke rose from the canyon as it burnt men and vegetation, its hisses turning to a high whining of frustration and pain.
Shouts of victory came from the gorge, and Mirra’s eyes stung. With a harsh rasping, a glimmer of copper-gold slid past through the trees, moving with astonishing speed. The dragon had fled. Her heart leapt, and she jumped up, craning to see how badly it was injured, but it vanished in a flash of silver. Bane urged the demon steed over the rim, and she mounted the grey horse to hurry after him.
In the gorge, burnt bodies and crushed, bloody cadavers lay in jumbled piles. Golden scales glittered amongst them, testifying to the dragon’s injuries. Mirra jumped down and hurried over to those who still twitched and moaned, eking out her healing amongst so many. The triumphant soldiers stood about in dazed relief, some nursing wounds or helping friends to bind theirs. Injured dark creatures crawled towards the safety of the shadows, black ichor oozing from their skins. Some merely flapped and kicked, unable to drag themselves along, but Mirra avoided them.
Bane rode through the carnage, barely glancing at the fallen men as he headed for the cave. Mirra hurried amongst the dying, trying to save as many as she could. More than five hundred men, trolls, goblins and rock howlers would never rise again, and the sweet stench of burnt flesh sickened her. The black, misshapen bodies of grims, weirds and grotesques evoked less pity, for these might very well be better off dead. She found Orran’s body under a pile of goblins, half of his chest ripped away by the dragon’s claws.
By the time she finished and sat on a rock, exhausted, her power mere dregs, Bane had been gone for some time. Realising that she was alone and vulnerable to demon attack, she hastened after him.
The demon steed guarded the cave entrance, and stepped into her path when she approached. Evidently Bane had instructed it to let no one enter, and she knew she would not win past. The steed snorted fire at her, and she retreated, looking about with deep unease for the tell-tale black circle that heralded a demon. None was in evidence, so she settled down to wait. Further up the ravine, the soldiers rested on the bones and opened their packs to extract wine flagons and dried meat, muttering.
Demon Lord Page 54