Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Mirra ran towards Bane when he fell to his knees, almost recoiling from the lash of his pain, but stopped before she reached him, unable to bear more. The droge glared at her with baleful eyes while Bane drank the potion, then he staggered to his tent, leaning on Dorel. His face was ashen, the whites of his eyes crimson, and blue shadows marred the skin beneath them. Mirra stood irresolute, longing to help, but afraid of the droge who now guarded him.

  Berating herself for her cowardice, she thrust aside the flap and entered the tent. Dorel rose from Bane’s bedside, scowling, but his sickly face riveted Mirra. He was unconscious, his breathing fast and shallow, blue veins showing through his pale skin.

  “Get out.” Dorel stepped towards her.

  “He will die. I must help him.”

  “He doesn’t need your kind of help. Your potions will poison him. He needs rest, that’s all.”

  Mirra shook her head, desperate to get past the droge. “The power is killing him. He cannot use it. He is human.”

  Dorel snarled, “I’ll tend to him, human trash. Now get out!”

  “Please let me help him.”

  The droge lunged at Mirra, hit her in the chest and sent her stumbling backwards out of the tent to sprawl on the grass. Picking herself up, she stared at the tent, confused. The woman was amazingly strong. What was she to do? Bane needed her more than ever, and she needed help, someone Dorel might trust. Turning away, she ran down to the army camp, where trolls and goblins sat around their fires, playing games or idly chatting.

  “Mord!” Mirra yelled, making all the trolls look at her. One rose from a nearby fire, and she hurried over to him. “Mord, you have to help me.”

  Realising that they stood in the midst of the camp, she grasped his hairy arm and pulled him aside. He followed, his mournful face wearing a bewildered expression.

  “Mord, I have to give the Demon Lord a potion. He is sick.”

  Mord shook his head. “The Demon Lord sent me away.”

  “Please, he needs our help.”

  “That woman dislikes me.”

  “I know. Just take a cup of potion to her, and tell her you made it for the Demon Lord. Tell her he needs it, that it is stronger than the potion she gave him. Will you?”

  The troll shrugged and nodded.

  Her heart buoyant, Mirra hurried away to scour the rocky slopes for the flowers she needed, then brewed the medicine at Mord’s fire. When it was ready, she sent him on his errand, following to hide behind a tree and watch. He scratched on the tent flap, and Dorel appeared, scowling.

  The huge troll held out the cup. “Strong potion, for the Demon Lord. He needs it. The other one is too weak.”

  The droge took the cup and sniffed it, her face twisting. “Filth!”

  Dorel flung the cup at Mord, who retreated, dripping sweet brew. Mirra groaned, sinking down to sit with her back against the tree. How could she help Bane when she could not get near him? The only idea that seemed to have any merit was to wait until the droge was asleep, then sneak in and give Bane the medicine. Once more, she went to gather flowers amongst the bracken and brew potion as darkness fell.

  Mirra waited, fighting off sleep, while the moon rose and the troll army snored around her. The trolls camped closest to Bane’s tent, a privilege won through dint of brawn and numbers, consigning the goblins and rock howlers to less prestigious, more distant campsites. This, she had learnt while playing knucklebones with them, a point of pride, it seemed, to brave the Demon Lord’s proximity.

  Mirra fed the fire to ward off the night chill, listening to the night creatures’ howls as they hunted. Several times, she nodded off, jerking awake as she slumped. When the full moon reached its zenith, she picked up the wine skin that contained her potion and crept to the tent, her breath steaming in the chill air. No sound came from within, and she hoped the droge was a deep sleeper. Cautiously she pulled the tent flap open, scanning the darkness. Dorel huddled against the side of the tent, her chin sunk on her chest, her eyes closed.

  With infinite stealth, Mirra crept into the tent, not daring to breathe. A lamp that hung from a hook on the tent’s central pole threw a pool of light on the bed, and she gazed down at Bane, her heart aching. Even in the soft light, he looked ashen and gaunt, his eyes sunken in blue shadows. She bent over him, reaching for the wine skin’s plug.

  Something hit her on the side of the head and sent her staggering back, to bounce off the hard leather wall and slide out of the flap. She sprawled on the grass outside, and looked up at the triumphant droge’s as Dorel stepped out after her.

  Dorel said, “We of the Underworld don’t sleep, human dung. We are tireless. Didn’t Bane tell you that, hmmm?” She kicked Mirra, forcing a yelp from her. With so little power, she had no defence against the droge’s blows. Dorel loomed over her, sneering, “Stupid little witch. You think you can poison Bane? You think I’ll let you?”

  Again, her foot thudded into Mirra’s ribs, and she cried out, trying to roll away, dazed by the blow to her head and the speed of events. Dorel came after her, laughing at her attempts to escape the kicks that pummelled her ribs, buttocks and thighs. The droge gripped the front of Mirra’s gown and dragged her to her feet. Her strong hands closed around Mirra’s throat, and she knew the droge would kill her if she could. Without Bane to protect her, Dorel might even succeed where the demons had failed. With a violent twist, she broke free and ran into the forest, tripping over roots and rocks, branches scratching her and snagging her dress. Dorel’s heavy tread pursued her, crashing through the undergrowth.

  Mirra rebounded off a tree that loomed out of the darkness and fell, clutching her face. Blood oozed from her nose, and she sobbed, dazed anew by the collision. Dorel’s noisy progress continued towards her, but she could not summon the strength to run any further. Hopelessness sapped the last of her energy. Everyone was against her. She had no friends since Benton and the men had left; no one cared about her. Bane hated her, Dorel wanted to kill her, and the demons wanted her dead too, at the Black Lord’s behest. She was utterly alone and despondent, exhausted by her ordeal at Bane’s hands. He kept her alive only to torment her, and would kill her when he could. She bowed her head and wept.

  The droge pushed through the bushes and smiled. “So, human, Bane can’t protect you now. The Black Lord will reward me well for this night’s work.”

  Mirra scrambled to her feet and retreated, shaking her head. Dorel smirked, clearly savouring her moment of triumph. A flash of bright crimson caught Mirra’s eye, and the demon steed thrust through the foliage, prancing between her and the droge. Dorel cursed foully, glaring at the steed, which glowered back, snorting fire. Mirra stared at the steed in confusion, then realisation dawned. The beast still had orders to protect her. It had no choice but to obey Bane.

  Dorel muttered in angry frustration, glowered at Mirra and stormed away. The steed turned baleful eyes on Mirra too, then moved off into the forest. Her shaking legs buckled, and she sank down on the leafy floor, holding her aching ribs. The scratches that branches had inflicted on her face stung, and not even enough of her healing power remained to stop the pain.

  For a while, she hugged herself and wept, raging at her inability to help Bane. So much hatred surrounded her, from Dorel, the demon steed, the loathsome dark creatures that crept through the night, and even Bane, especially Bane. His hatred hurt more, for she cared about him, and did not deserve his animosity. If only he would accept her as his friend and let her help him, it would give her existence meaning. Just as he had been starting to listen to her, even treating her with a modicum of kindness, the droge had come between them. How could she persuade him to give up his evil quest if she could no longer talk to him? At night, she missed his soft breathing and the sounds of his restless tossing, and her rest had not been peaceful the previous night, when she had slept alone beside the fire.

  When at last her tears subsided, she made her way to Mord’s campfire and curled up next to it, fatigue numbing her bruises. Her worries kept her awake
for a time, fearing demons now that Bane was unconscious. Her eyes kept flicking open to scan the darkness for the malformed shape of an earth demon’s gritty form or the sickly flames of a fire demon, until a dull crimson glow amongst the trees told her that the demon steed stood guard over her. Reassured, she drifted off to sleep.

  The trolls’ deep voices woke Mirra as they relighted the fire to prepare breakfast. The cold light of another grim grey dawn silvered the trees’ pale bark and bright green leaves sheened with sparkling dew. Her clammy robe stuck to her and she ached all over, one eye swollen and probably blue. She clutched the damp blanket that someone had thrown over her, shivering. A troll gave her a bowl of hot porridge, which she ate with hungry relish, not caring that it was watery and tasteless. Her eyes strayed often to the tent. Miraculously, she still had the wine skin of potion, which she tied to her belt.

  The morning passed slowly, the falls’ thunder underscoring the mountain forest’s peace. She joined the trolls in a game of knucklebones, her concern for Bane distracting her. If only she could do something. The droge was immensely strong, however. It would take a number of trolls to keep her at bay. She toyed with the idea of asking them to help, but if Dorel stayed close to Bane they would not approach, and they certainly would not enter the tent. Apart from Mord, who seemed to care about him, these troops probably did not believe that Bane could die, since he was the Black Lord’s son.

  Late in the morning, raised voices came from the tent. Mirra’s heart pounded, and she wished she could go there. Dorel’s voice was shrill, and Bane’s deep tones cut through it. The tent flap opened and the Demon Lord appeared. He tottered stiffly, his eyes red and pallor deathly. He tried to shake off Dorel, who strived to drag him back into the tent, but barely held his own.

  “Girl!”

  His shout cracked across the camp, making Mirra start. She stood up, and he beckoned to her. Mirra ran up to him, stopping a few paces away, frightened by the fury in Dorel’s eyes. The droge started towards her, but Bane caught her arm, halting her.

  “Leave her alone.”

  Dorel glared at him. “She wants to poison you.”

  “She will not.” Bane studied Mirra, and then crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”

  Mirra sidled closer, wary of Dorel. Bane kept the droge in check, even though he swayed and sweat dewed his brow.

  “Make your potion,” he said.

  Mirra untied the skin and proffered it. “I tried to give you some last night, but Dorel stopped me.”

  “Poison!” Dorel shouted.

  Bane sighed, wincing. “Drink some.”

  Still, he did not trust her. Mirra took several gulps from the skin, and then handed it to Bane. Dorel tried to knock it from his grasp, but he held it out of her reach. The three waited, Dorel panting and scowling, until the Demon Lord was satisfied that Mirra had not drunk poison. Then he drained the wine skin, defeating Dorel’s efforts to snatch it away. She turned on Mirra, trying to reach her with claw-like hands. Bane staggered a little, but held her back.

  “She’s poisoned you!” Dorel yelled. “She probably took the antidote already.”

  “Be quiet,” Bane growled.

  “She’s a witch. It won’t kill her!”

  “She has no power.”

  Dorel hissed, but this statement seemed stump her, and she shot Mirra a look of deep loathing. Mirra’s aches and pains vanished, and Bane’s frown eased, his colour improving. He raised his head and breathed deeply, letting it out in a long sigh. With a rough push, he sent Dorel staggering away.

  “Make me some food.”

  Dorel tossed her head and stalked off, hips swinging. Bane took Mirra’s wrist and towed her into the tent. Releasing her, he sat on the bed, waited until she sat at his feet, and then inspected her again.

  “Dorel did that to you?”

  She nodded. “She was angry.”

  Bane smiled bitterly. “My father sent her to stop you giving me the potion. He believes it is what weaves the spell, but I know better. You will make a flask and give it to me.”

  Mirra smiled, her heart buoyant. “Of course.”

  “Mord will drink some first.”

  She shrugged, a little of her joy evaporating. “As you wish.”

  He leant closer, his manner intimidating. “Do not think that I trust you, because I do not.”

  “It does not matter, as long as I can help you.”

  “You make no sense, helping your enemy.”

  “Healers help any who need it.”

  He shook his head. “Stupidity. But I will use that foolishness. You will aid your downfall.”

  “Bane, you are not -”

  Dorel thrust open the tent flap and entered, carrying a bowl of red stew. The food bubbled from the fire, but the droge held it as if it was lukewarm. She snarled at Mirra, “Get out, slut!”

  Bane stood up, already stronger now that the agony had gone, and frowned at her. “I give the orders around here, droge. From now on, you will leave the girl alone. Touch her again, and I will punish you. Now leave us.”

  Dorel smiled and held out the bowl, and Mirra yelled, “No!”

  Bane had already taken it, not realising that it was boiling hot. Unprepared, his power failed to shield him. With a grunt, he dropped the bowl, which smashed.

  Dorel’s spiteful smile widened. “Too hot to handle, Bane? Your weak human body always lets you down, doesn’t it?”

  He loomed over her, his expression daunting. “You damned lifeless piece of walking corruption. You insult me? You dare? Who do you think you are toying with, droge?”

  She sneered, “You can’t harm me.”

  “Oh no? Think again, Dorel. I can destroy you, crush you to dust and send you to oblivion.”

  “The Black Lord would tear you apart.”

  He snorted. “You overestimate your worth. My father might be a little annoyed. I have destroyed two demons already, and received a token berating at best for it. I am as powerful as the Black Lord, and you would do well to remember that.”

  Dorel shrank back, but her air was defiant and her eyes spat venom. Bane thrust her away. “Make more food, and if you ever try to harm my person again, you will pay. Understand?”

  Dorel nodded and slipped out.

  Bane sank back down on the bed, running a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, physical punishment is useless on her. I would have to use power. Droges like her feel no pain. They must be endowed with special bodies for that.”

  “Can you not banish her, like the demons?”

  “No. She cannot be summoned or sent. My father asked her to come. She did not have to. The droges are my father’s concubines, chattel, but they are dead souls, beyond the power of anyone save my father and me. I can only tell her to leave. I can rescind her form, but that would take power. She does not even have to obey me, and she does not fear me as demons do. She is one of my father’s favourites, and that has made her bold. Most do fear me.”

  He sighed. “I still have to break that infernal ward, too. I must find the real one. The one in the rainbow is an illusion; a clever trick.”

  “But you are too weak. You need to rest. The dark magic is harming you. If you use it too much, it could kill you.”

  “I have to release my father, then he will free me of this weak body. The power will not kill me. It only makes me sick. Go and prepare the potion now.”

  “Bane -”

  “Do not defy me too. Go.”

  Mirra rose, longing to talk to him further, but unwilling to incur his wrath. He seemed exhausted, almost despondent, and she pitied him. Just then, Dorel entered with another bowl of food, and sneered at Mirra as she passed her.

  Mirra went in search of more flowers, Bane’s newfound willingness to accept her help lifting her spirits, even though he did not trust her. If it was the only aid she could give him, she would do that, at least. Her search took her to the edge of the chasm, where lush plants grew in the cool spray, and there she found a clump of the
herb.

  As she plucked the flowers, her eyes were constantly drawn to the wonder of the cascading, roaring water and the lovely rainbow that hung in the mist. The ward glowed brightly, its delicate blue lines forming a pentagram, an arcane symbol that could summon and guard against evil. She filled her skirt with blooms, watching the falls when she rested. The plummeting water fascinated her, and her eyes followed it into the mist-shrouded depths. A glint of blue caught her attention, and she tried to discern what it was. Almost at the very bottom of the falls, revealed only occasionally by the swirling mists, a second pentagram glowed.

  For a long time, she contemplated it, then gathered up her full skirts and headed back to the camp to make the potion. The mage who had set this ward had indeed been cunning, as had the one on the Isle of Lume. Knowing that creatures of the Underworld hated water, he had set the ward where no one could reach it without getting soaked. The illusion was intended to make Bane expend his power needlessly, speeding his doom so if Mirra failed to turn him from his purpose he would die trying to break the last ward.

  Even now, he skirted close to death. The evil power sickened him more each time he used it. Now she could not heal him while he carried the darkness even if she had the power to do so, for he was too weak and ill. When he was drained of the magic, he regained some of his health, but all too soon he gathered more again. Her potion only took away the pain, and every day he grew sicker, a little closer to death. How could she persuade him to stop when he refused to believe her warnings and rejected the truth about himself? The droge made it almost impossible to speak to him, and her constant carping reinforced his suspicions.

  As she knelt by the fire, stirring the boiling pot in which the blue flowers turned white, Bane emerged from his tent, Dorel close behind. The droge carried a pack, and Mirra knew it contained the two pots and flagon of potion he used when performing the dark ritual of the Gather. If only she could free him from the dark web in which he was ensnared. The droge was not only here to try to stop him taking Mirra’s potion, she was also meant to keep Bane on the path the Black Lord had set for him.

  They vanished into the forest, Bane seeking privacy for his ritual. Mirra took the pot off the fire and let the flowers steep, then strained them out through a cloth and set the potion aside to cool before decanting it into a wine skin. When her chore was done, Bane returned, and pity closed her throat. His strides were jerky, his brow furrowed, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed, and his lips too red again. Mirra picked up the skin and hurried over to him, calling Mord. When she reached the Demon Lord, he stopped, and Dorel hissed. Mord hovered a short distance away, forcing Mirra to walk back to him. Bane watched her give him some of the medicine, waiting until it was proven to be harmless.

  When he nodded and held out his hand, she gave him the wineskin, and he drank from it before tucking it into his tunic. Gradually his brow cleared, and he relaxed as the pain subsided, but his eyes remained bloodshot and his colour did not improve much. The freshly cut runes glowed through his tunic, and the dark power in him added to his sickly pallor. He walked to the edge of the crevasse and searched it for the real ward, ignoring the illusion in the rainbow.

  Mirra followed and stood beside him. Bane glanced at her, his weariness written in his eyes.

  “Bane, please do not break the ward -”

  Dorel snarled, “Hold your tongue, slut. Do you think the Demon Lord will listen to your whining?”

  Bane closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. When he opened them again, he looked at Dorel. “I can speak for myself. I do not need you to champion my cause. I have managed well enough without you.”

  The droge glared at him and flounced off, tossing her fiery hair. Mirra touched Bane’s arm, desperate to get his attention, but he pulled away.

  “Please -”

  “Leave me be. Dorel is right, you waste your breath.”

  Mirra met his cold eyes. Moisture dewed his skin and settled on his raven hair like a veil of tiny diamonds. His brows were knotted and his stare was as fierce as a hawk’s. She looked away, unable to hold his gaze for long, and her eyes drifted to the glowing ward at the bottom of the gorge.

  “Then I will tell you, the ward is far below, at the base of the waterfall.”

  Bane’s eyes flicked down, and he smiled, a slow, hard expression of triumph and contempt. “You are a traitor to your kind. Your help will speed their downfall.”

  “You are the one who is killing your own people. The Black Lord is not your father. He uses you to free himself.”

  He shook his head. “I do not care what you say. I do not believe it. You are the liar, and the traitor. Do you expect to be rewarded?”

  “No!” Mirra gasped at the unfairness of the suggestion. “I am no traitor. You would have found it, but it would have cost you more pain and brought you closer to the death the Black Lord has planned for you, which I am trying to save you from.”

  His piercing gaze seemed to probe her soul. “Why? If you really believe that my father wants me dead, you should not try to stop it. You are only ensuring your destruction.”

  Mirra lowered her eyes. “I would rather sway you than watch you die, for only you have the power to stand against the Black Lord. If you are killed before you break the final ward, he will send another, and we will still lose.”

  “You think I will stand against my father?” He chuckled. “You dream, girl. I would never betray him. Never!”

  “Even if he betrays you?”

  “He will not. He is my father, and proud of me. Why should he?”

  Mirra shook her head, saddened by his faith in the monster he thought was his father. “Because you are as powerful as him, and a threat. Because he will not want to share his power with anyone, and you are not his son, but a human, which he despises. Because -”

  “Enough! None of that is true. You do not know my father, but I do, and I say he will not harm me.”

  “Bane, why would he want a son, even if he did create you? He is immortal. He made you what you are only to break the wards. Once you have done that, he will have no more use for you.”

  Bane snorted. “My father raised me. He was lonely before I came. Demons are tedious company.”

  Mirra gazed at the ward, elusive in the thundering mists. She was failing, but how could she convince him of the truth when he dismissed everything she said as lies? The fate of the Overworld rested upon her, and she had to find a way to reach him, even though it seemed hopeless. She tried another angle, one in which she had little faith.

  “What of this world? What of the people he will kill?”

  “That is up to him.”

  “What of me?”

  The falls thundered in the short silence, and he shifted, his boots creaking. His red-lined cloak flapped lazily in the breeze, but she could not look at him, even though she was certain that he studied her, for she could sense his stony gaze.

  “Perhaps I will keep you.”

  She shuddered. “I do not want to be the only human alive in this world.”

  Bane stared across the gulf as if it was a hurdle he had to cross. Abruptly he turned and strode off, and her hope flared, but then he swung to face the ravine again, his expression resolute as he raised his arms and summoned the power. With a groan, Mirra walked away.