Mirra shifted in the cramped cage, the thin slats digging into her. Orran’s people had ambushed her only a few hours after she had left Bane’s camp, leaping from the undergrowth with screams of glee, causing the warhorse to shy. She had slid off into the crowd of warriors, who had laughed and toyed cruelly with her, pushing her from one to another, slapping and pinching her, dragging her upright by her hair. Their rough hands had groped her in a way that had sickened her. Bane, when he had beaten her, had not added insult to injury in that manner.
The stallion had returned to the fray, biting and kicking the tattooed men, but they had driven him away with clubs and spears. Afraid that he might be injured, she had told him to flee, knowing he could do little against so many. When the warriors tired of their cruel sport, they had bound her and forced her to walk back to their village in the gloomy forest.
There, they had pushed her into the cage and gone to celebrate, leaving her to spend the rest of the night curled up in its confines, trapped like the innocent forest creatures whose fate she now shared. Her plan seemed foolish now, for it had only hastened her death. At least Bane was free of her, and whatever spell the healers had cast. Whether he succeeded or failed, she would not be the cause of his death. She prayed until dawn’s rosy streaks brightened the eastern sky, then the drums started their monotonous beat, drowning out her fervent whispers.
As the sun rose, people came to stare at her, poke her with sticks and taunt her with cruel insults. Mirra pitied their depravity, especially the children. The sharp sticks pierced her skin, but there was neither pain nor blood. What little of her power remained protected her, but the cutting out of her heart on the sacrificial altar would certainly kill her. Her lack of pain spoilt the people’s enjoyment, and many resorted to spitting at her. She bore it stoically, using the hem of her dress to wipe it away.
The sun had barely risen above the trees when the warriors came for her. They dragged her out and shoved her towards the temple on numb legs. A hissing, chanting crowd watched her pass, undoubtedly imagining the favours they hoped to gain from her death. The warriors sent her stumbling forward with rough pushes, and she narrowly avoided colliding with a young boy who darted out of the crowd to kick her shins. Many of those who lined the road were armed with thin switches with which they lashed her.
The temple loomed ahead, more frightening now that it was to be the place of her death. The gargoyles leered at her, mocking her helplessness, and the crowd’s chanting, set to the drumming, rose in a frenzy of anticipation. Terror robbed her of the serenity her prayers had imparted, and she fell to her knees in the dust. The crowd laughed, jeering as the guards dragged her to her feet and half carried her up the steps into the temple.
At the altar, a priest stepped up to her, his eager, beady eyes roving over her in a way that made her skin crawl. The stained stone altar oozed the sickening pain of its many victims, and the priest shouted arcane words she did not understand, making the crowd roar. Her heart hammered, and she tried to calm herself, thinking of the Lady waiting to welcome her to an eternity of happiness in the light realm.
The chanting went on and on. The drums pounded in her ears and dancers cavorted about the temple, extorting the crowd to new heights of ecstatic worship. The thick, cloying smell of sweat and incense stung her nose, and the torches’ acrid smoke made her eyes water. The scene became mercifully blurred as the narcotic smoke dulled her senses, but when two priests lifted her onto the altar, terror spasmed her gut and bile stung her throat. They bound her arms to rings set in the stone, and she stared at the temple roof.
Mirra’s thoughts turned to Bane, wishing she had seen him laugh just once from joy, instead of bitterness and malice. What would he look like, without the perpetual sneer that twisted his mouth or the lines of rage and suffering that furrowed his brow? She sobbed, fighting to quell the hysteria that bubbled in her breast, choking back the scream that longed to burst from her. Around her, the chanting, drumming and dancing mingled into a dull roar that beat at her like storm waves upon a beach. Her chest was cold, her throat dry and burning, and the chill stone jabbed into her back.
The priest stopped raving, and the drums and chanting ceased at the same moment, plunging the temple into a deathly silence. For Mirra, the world seemed to recede, leaving only evil smells and lurid, flickering shadows. The priest stepped up to the altar and loomed over her, holding a knife. A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as it anticipated the blow, and she closed her eyes. In her mind’s numb blackness, a small, frightened voice cried in fear, calling upon the Lady for mercy and redemption. The priest’s robes rustled as he raised the knife, then a wave of cold power made her stomach heave, and she opened her eyes.
Bane stood over her, holding the sacrificial knife poised above her heart. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her as she scanned his furious features, then he brought the knife down in a flashing stroke. Mirra cried out, bracing herself for the shock of the blow, but instead the blade shattered on the stone with a crack, a hair’s breadth from her ribs.
The Demon Lord leant closer, his eyes brilliant. “You deserve to die, you infernal imbecile, but I cannot let you. Did I not tell you that? Did you think you could escape me? I am the Demon Lord! I will decide your fate, not you!” Drawing his dagger, he slashed the ropes that bound her wrists, took hold of her arm and jerked her upright, almost nose-to-nose with him. “Did you think to flee back to your precious little abbey and hide there?”
“Yes,” Mirra whispered, still stunned by his sudden, impossible presence. Her eyes clung to his pale features, all else a blur. His frigid eyes sliced into hers, tearing away the warm pleasure of his rescue and bringing the rest of reality into focus again. Orran’s people were all prostrated, foreheads pressed to the floor in the presence of the Demon Lord. Hot tears of shock and relief spurted into her eyes.
His voice was a low, furious growl. “Nowhere in this world is safe from me. Nowhere!”
“I wanted to hide from the demons, not you.” A sob closed her throat, and she gulped. “I do not want you to die protecting me.” She reached out to him, begging for understanding, for a gentling of his expression to tell her that he appreciated her concern and was moved by her selflessness.
Bane slapped her, sending her rolling off the altar. He strode around it and straddled her, leaning down to shout, “Fool! Imbecile! You cause me nothing but trouble! You would never have reached an abbey. The only reason you are still alive is because these people captured you before my father sent a demon. When they took you, he did not need to, knowing they would do the job.”
Although the blow had not hurt, she raised a hand to her cheek, blinking. “I am sorry.”
“Damn you!” Bane swung away to kick an unfortunate priest. Mirra had never seen him so enraged. He was frightening, demonic, yet he kept the dark power leashed. He turned back to her, and she cringed. Gripping her arm, he yanked her to her feet and dragged her from the temple, kicking at men who did not move quickly enough from his path. The crowd remained prostrated as he threw her onto the demon steed with bruising force, mounting behind her. The stallion’s foul power made her retch, and Bane snapped a curt command. The power vanished, and the stallion’s fire dimmed.
The steed’s speed as it raced back to the camp amazed Mirra. The earth blurred beneath its flying hooves and its flaming mane licked harmlessly at her. She sat forward, avoiding contact with Bane, who radiated rage and resentment. His fury dampened her elation at his timely rescue, yet her heart warmed, disregarding his past cruelties and present brutality. He had saved her. The Demon Lord had ridden back to rescue her. Even though she believed him when he said he merely rose to his father’s challenge, and would one day kill her, she was still honoured to be rescued by such a powerful man.
At the camp, he pushed her off and dismounted to haul her into his tent. He flung her down and sat on the bed, his anger fading somewhat. Picking up a pot, he opened it and smeared green salve on his hand, which bled where the sacrificia
l knife had cut him when he had smashed it. A pregnant silence fell, and Mirra stared at his boots.
Finally he said, “You should long for my death. You cast the spell to cause it, now you try to prevent it?”
Mirra licked dry lips and raised her eyes. “I cast no spell. If there is one, the healers must have done it, and I am just their tool. But I do not want your death.”
His brows rose. “I am destroying your world, breaking the wards to free my father. How can you want me to live?”
“Killing cannot be justified. To kill you is just as evil as your killing other people. If healers start to kill, even to save the world, we are all doomed. Armies may fight you, soldiers may try to kill you, but the Lady forbids healers to cause death.”
Bane raked back his hair, making it sweep from his temples in blue-black feathers. His mood, typically, had now gentled entirely, as if the spurt of rage had temporarily cleansed him of the bitterness and anger that always hung about him like a dark cloud.
“What would happen to one who did?”
She shrugged, lowering her gaze to his boots once more. “Some say she would suffer the death herself, not her victim, and the Lady would reject her. Some say she would lose her powers. Certainly she would be cast from her abbey.”
“If this is true, how can the healers plot to kill me?”
“They do not. They cannot. It is impossible. Yet even if they do not, the result would be the same, and I do not want to be responsible for your death.”
“Because of what would happen to you?”
She glanced up, startled by this suggestion, so far from the truth. “No, even if nothing happened to me. Even if they gave me a medal and the Lady congratulated me for it, I have no wish to kill you.”
“Even though I intend to kill you.”
“Even so,” she agreed.
“Even though, by killing me, you could save all the people in this world?”
Mirra hesitated. “I would die to save them, but I will not kill for it.”
Bane shook his head. “I cannot believe you. Your pious prating smacks of lies, and my father said you were sent to deceive me. You have tried hard. Many would have been misled by now, but I have faith in my father. I trust him, not you.”
“Then you do not believe that the power will kill you, or that the food you eat, the wine you drink is poisoned?”
“Poisoned!” He snorted. “You are the poison, and the poisoner. But you will fail. You bide your time, thinking to gain my trust, but you will not.”
“If that is so, I am running out of time. You have only two wards to break.”
“Yes, you will be getting desperate soon, but I will watch you. Perhaps this running away to save me was all a ploy to make me use the power again, since you think it will kill me. But you failed. I did not use any.” He leant closer. “I could have been there long before, had I used it. You were lucky I was in time, or perhaps unlucky.”
She closed her eyes. “I was lucky. But I was not trying to make you use the power.”
“We shall see how lucky you are.”
Another thick silence fell, and Mirra drooped. After her sleepless, uncomfortable night, she was exhausted, hardly able to listen to him, much less hold an intelligent conversation. He left, and she lay down, longing for sleep. It seemed only a second later that he shook her awake again.
“Get up, we are leaving. Your horse has returned.”
Bane left her to shake off the sleep that tried to drag her back into its soft black folds. As she tottered from the tent, it collapsed behind her as Mord packed it away. The grey horse awaited her, saddled, and she climbed onto his back. Bane set off aboard the demon steed, Mirra following, and the grumbling army trudged after them.
Mirra hardly noticed the day pass. Her weariness blanked her mind and dulled her perceptions. The open woodland gave way to thick forests that slowed the pace to a walk, and the horse’s plodding lulled her with its gentle swaying. The stallion followed Bane, Mirra sagging on his back, dimly aware that they had once more entered a gloomy, dripping forest. At times, she nodded off, but the horrible slipping sensation as she started to slide from the saddle jerked her awake. Only when they arrived at a city did the stallion’s tension jolt her into wakefulness.
The forest’s mighty, looming trees ended abruptly, as if the soil beyond that point had been poisoned, for not even a blade of grass grew in it. Dead brown earth, trampled to rock-like hardness, surrounded the Old Kingdom city. Once a mighty metropolis, the ancient city’s huge stone buildings crumbled into ruin, and the streets, wide enough for ten horses to traverse abreast, were cracked and worn. Statues of demons, heroes and gods, some forgotten, others recognisable, and a few that had never existed, lined the broad roads. Guttering flames and foul offerings clustered at their feet, bird droppings streaked their impassive stone faces.
A great procession of red- and black-robed priests, wearing gargoyle masks, met Bane as he rode into the city. A hissing chant of greeting rose from the crowd that gathered around him, and while these people honoured their evil lord with cleanliness, they still had tattoos and disfigurations. They performed a reverent prostration, their arms outstretched in abject worship, until Bane made an impatient gesture that brought them upright, heads bowed. When the high priest had read a long oratory of welcome, the priestly procession parted to admit the demon steed into their midst, forming around Bane in an honour guard. Soldiers in smart green and black armour held back the crowd as the Demon Lord rode past, and the priests, carrying long staffs tipped with tiny torches, strode beside him.
Mirra was shocked by the number of crippled beggars that fringed the crowd. Never had she seen so many people with missing appendages, eyes, ears and even noses. Some wore leg chains or iron collars, and all carried a tin cup, which they rattled at the people who watched the procession. Filthy rags covered them, and their eyes gazed hopelessly from sunken sockets in emaciated faces. She guessed that they must be slaves, perhaps captured over the river and brought here to live out their lives in misery, or sacrificed when occasion demanded it. The sight of their mutilations aroused her pity, and she longed to go amongst them and give what help she could.
The grim city was devoid of greenery; the mostly windowless brown stone buildings stood in ugly rows, unrelieved by any ornamentation save gargoyles and carved runes. Crows perched atop walls and statues, watching the people below with glittering black eyes. Their hoarse cries echoed amongst the monstrous buildings, adding a taint of corruption to the malevolent atmosphere. Mirra thought it fitting that carrion birds would inhabit a city of evil worship. The ride through the metropolis seemed interminable, but eventually the procession halted in front of an enormous temple set atop a shallow stepped pyramid.
Columns held up a flat stone roof, much like the one Orran’s people worshipped in, only this one was larger, grander, and intact. Mirra wondered how the huge slabs of stone, fifty feet long and at least three feet thick, had been raised to balance on the columns. The grey rock had a smooth, glazed surface, similar to that of Torlock Keep, which made her think magic had been used in its construction.
Stone serpents coiled up the columns, their eyes set with emeralds. Deeply etched runes, meaningless to her untrained eyes, covered the roof slab’s edge. The honour guard chased away a huddle of human misery on one side of the steps; another group of mutilated slaves chained together. Many were so weak they could barely walk, and their fellows helped them as the guards lashed them with long whips. Mirra swallowed a whimper at their pain. Bane seemed oblivious to them.
The Demon Lord halted the steed at the bottom of the steps, where two lines of torch-bearing priests flanked the route upwards. She thought he would ride into the temple, but he dismounted, and she followed suit. Bane flicked the edges of his cloak over his shoulders, revealing the crimson lining, and mounted the steps. She hesitated before following, acutely aware of the priests’ eyes upon her. Bane traversed the torturously steep ascent with ease, but Mirra’s legs
ached by the time she was halfway up.
At the top, she followed him across a vast stretch of black marble floor flanked by the seemingly endless ranks of red-robed, tattooed priests. All of them had a third, glaring red eye painted on their foreheads, and their cheeks bore long scars from blood lettings. Torches cast dancing golden brilliance, banishing almost all the shadows that tried to gather now that the sun had set. Ugly black statues huddled in niches, and gargoyles leered from corners.
The clicking of Bane’s boots was loud in the hushed, reverent atmosphere, and Mirra’s skin crawled. The priests’ trappings and rich clothes made it clear that this was a prosperous people, secure in their city, righteous in their worship of the Black Lord. Many wore tarnished copper nose rings and huge golden earrings that pulled their ears into long, sagging flaps. All glared into space, their expressions blankly fierce, but as Bane passed them, each prostrated himself, causing a wave that followed the Demon Lord the length of the temple.
A tall, lean man rose from a golden throne behind a wagon-sized black marble altar. He wore black robes, and gold glittered at his throat and winked on his fingers. His bald head gleamed in the torchlight, and his dark eyes glinted in a cadaverous, hook-nosed face. Stepping aside, he bowed to Bane, indicating the vacated throne.
“Welcome, Demon Lord. I am Emperor Agden, and your presence here honours us.”
Bane stopped a pace away and regarded him, resting one leg in a relaxed manner. A dozen high-ranking priests flanked the throne, gold-trimmed cowls hiding their faces. As Bane waited, the silence grew oppressive, only the spluttering hiss of the torches disturbing it. Mirra found it hard to breathe as the tension grew acute; the air seemed too occupied with animosity to enter her lungs. The priests stood as if carved from stone, but the Emperor shifted, his eyes darting.
“Do we give offence, Lord?”
“You do. Do you think to meet me as an equal?”
The Emperor’s brows knotted. “You are only the Black Lord’s son, and I am emperor of the city that was once his, and is the greatest city to worship him.”
Bane’s lip curled. “You are a mere human, yet you presume to make no obeisance to me, as even the demons do.”
“The demons are just minions of the Black Lord. I lead his loyal people.” Agden drew himself up.
Bane’s mien was threatening. “I will not tolerate your disrespect. Prostrate yourself, or die.”
The Emperor’s scowl deepened, but he sank to his knees and pressed his face to the marble floor.
Bane set his boot against the man’s neck, holding him down. “Do not think to defy me, human. You are nothing to me.” Turning away, he stalked over to the altar and leant against it.
Agden rose to his feet and motioned to the throne again. “Take what is yours, Demon Lord.”
“It looks uncomfortable.” Bane yawned. “I am tired. Show me to a room.”
Agden appeared shocked. “We have planned a sacrifice in your honour, Lord.”
Bane shrugged. “Get on with it then.”
Mirra shuddered. They were about to slaughter some hapless person, and she would have to watch.
Agden bowed again, his face now set in respectful lines. “First we have prepared a feast and dancing to celebrate your arrival. The city waits to hear the drums signal the start of the revelry.”
Bane scanned the priest-lined temple and the silent crowd that gathered at the bottom of the steps. “I do not eat Overworld food, Agden. I will dine in my room, and return for the festivities and sacrifice. Bring the troll who bears my packs to me there.”
Agden’s jaw dropped, but Bane turned his back on him, and a senior priest came forward to guide him. Once again, Bane was led to a sumptuous chamber at the back of the temple, decorated with rich velvet and carved gilt chairs. Deep crimson silk covered the vast bed, and several tapestries depicted the Underworld. The huge fireplace held a cheerful blaze, and thick rugs warmed the floor. Lines of runes ran around the walls, angular characters that meant nothing to Mirra. She had not seen such opulence since King Holran’s palace. A feast of rare delicacies was spread on a table in front of the fire, and red wine glowed in cut-crystal decanters.
Bane surveyed the room and nodded to the priest, who bowed and left. Mirra sat beside the fire and sampled the food while Bane studied the runes on the walls.
When he joined her, he frowned. “This Agden thinks too much of himself. I do not trust him.”
Mirra bit into a honey cake. “Surely he can do nothing to you?”
“This place is a nest of vipers. He might think to try to kill me. He does not know my power.” He settled on a chair.
“Why would he do that? He worships your father.”
Bane stared at the fire. “It is easy to worship my father while he is trapped in the Underworld, but a man like Agden would not like to have to grovel before his lord in the flesh. He would rather the wards remain, so he may have his petty power in my father’s name.”
Mirra gazed at his profile. “You think he will try to kill you?”
“Probably.”
“Why not summon a demon to guard you?”
He looked at her. “Do you think I need a demon to guard me?”
“No. Of course not.” She glanced away, flustered. “But it would stop any attempt, so you would not have to worry about it.”
He smiled. “I am not worried about it. I am looking forward to it. I shall enjoy killing that arrogant bastard. I could order him to be the sacrifice tonight, but I think I will let him try.”
Mirra concentrated on her food. “May I stay here, while you go to the ceremony?”
Bane’s eyes narrowed, a look of contempt entering them. “I suppose it would not be to your liking.”
“No.”
“Very well; I shall set the runes to prevent any demons entering, so you will be safe. This place has power these fools do not know how use. The very stones are steeped in it.”
Mirra had been wondering why her hackles had risen when she entered the city, and still bristled, but that explained it. She munched a vegetable dish bathed in sweet sauce. Bane watched her with a kind of fascination.
“Why not try some?” she asked.
He frowned. “Still trying to poison me?”
“It is not poison. It is good food.”
“To you, not me.”
A knock came from the door, and Mord entered at Bane’s command, carrying a bowl of the reddish stew and a flagon of wine. When he left, the Demon Lord poured a glass of wine and sampled the stew.
Mirra eyed at it. “That is poison.”
She jumped as Bane’s fist crashed down on the table, making the crockery and glasses rattle. “My father sent me this food.”
She met his glare. “What does it taste like?”
He shrugged. “Food. How would I know? I have not eaten anything else. They go to a lot of trouble to provide this for me, since demons do not eat, and nor do the dead.”
“Is your father a sort of demon, too?”
“No. He is a god.”
Mirra coughed and took a gulp of water. Bane returned his attention to his plate.
“How can he be a god?” she asked. “This is the Lady’s domain.”
“Do you think your goddess is the only celestial being in this world? Arkonen is a god too. Once he was a man, then he was sent to the Underworld and became the Black Lord.”
“He was human?”
He nodded. “A long time ago. He cast aside his mortal body when he became the Black Lord, so he is not human anymore.”
“People cannot become gods.”
“Not usually, but he did.”
“How?”
“I never asked him.”
Mirra recalled her lessons about the birds and the bees. “If he has no mortal body, how can he be your father?”
“He created me with his power, stupid girl. I had no mother.”
“But you are mortal.”
“I had to be, to break the wards.” Mirra
shook her head, and Bane frowned, spooning his stew. “You seem unconvinced.”
“Your power cannot create. It only destroys.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment, then shrugged. “He must have found a way.”
“Prince Holran -”
“No!” Bane banged the table again, making her jump with the crockery. “I am no farm wench’s whelp.”
Mirra knew arguing with him would only put him in a foul mood. He finished his stew, then rose. Picking up the wine flagon, he wandered about the room, running his fingers over some of the runes on the walls. The runes he touched glowed faintly red, and he turned at the door.
“You will be safe in this room. Do not venture out of it.”
Mirra nodded. She had no intention of going anywhere. Her eyelids drooped, and she longed for sleep. When the door closed behind him, she contemplated the big, soft bed, which was a great temptation, invitingly empty.
Unable to resist, she stretched out on it, revelling in the forbidden luxury. Even at the abbey, her bed had not been this comfortable. She sank into it with a blissful sigh, cradled in its silken folds. She would wake before Bane came back, she decided. His ceremony would no doubt be long, maybe lasting all night. There was no harm in napping for a while.
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