Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Mirra jerked awake, blinking gritty eyes. She ached all over, and was amazed that she had survived. Raising herself on shaking arms, she looked around. Bane lay on his stomach beside her, his head turned to the side, as still and waxen as a corpse. Despair squeezed her heart, and she touched his brow, its warmth assuring her that he still lived.

  After a brief struggle, she rolled him onto his back, grunting. His limbs flopped, yet his eyes were open and his muscles twitched. Bloody tears ran down his cheeks, washing runnels in the dust on his skin. His pale eyes stared sightlessly at the blackening clouds, and his chest rose in shallow breaths.

  “Bane! Bane, can you hear me?”

  His eyes closed.

  Digging in his tunic, she found the nearly empty flask and held it to his lips, trickling the potion into his mouth. He coughed a spray of it out, then swallowed. Bit by bit, she fed it to him, careful not to waste a drop. When the flask was empty, she set it aside and placed a hand on his chest, snatching it back as a frisson of cold power shot up her arm. Alarmed, she undid his shirt and pulled it open. Six runes glowed dim red.

  “Bane, leash the power. Bane!”

  His head lolled to the side, and the runes faded to embers. There was no sign of the droge. Mirra climbed to her feet and tottered away in search of more dragonroot. She soon found another shrub, and tore her nails in her frenzy to dig it out, then ran to the tent and crushed it in a cup of water, squeezing the juice from its tough fibres. Stumbling back to the Demon Lord, she knelt beside him and lifted his head onto her lap. She trickled the fiery liquid into his mouth, persevering even when he gasped and coughed, knowing that it might still not be enough.

  When he had swallowed most of it, she wiped his face with the hem of her dress. His limp jet mane covered her lap like dusty raven’s wings, his deep widow’s peak and sharply angled brows at the mercy of her exploring fingers. She had often longed to trace his striking features and caress his silken skin, but had thought she would never get the chance. Now he was unable to evade her, and even his lashing tongue was stilled by the half-death that held him.

  The clouds thickened and blackened into an ominous shroud, and distant lightning flickered to earth, followed by soft rumbles of thunder. The fallen seventh ward lay crushed and broken, its power gone. The Black Lord was rising. She could taste a cold tang of iron in the air and smell corruption in the wind. Bane’s crimson-lined cloak lay about him like a pool of black-edged blood, and his breathing was a laborious hiss. He clung to life by a thread, held only by the dragonroot and his perverse spirit.

  Gently she traced his fine brows and stroked the glossy hair that had always bristled with life. The runes had faded to angry red scars, yet somehow remained menacing. Leaning over him, she allowed her tears to overflow and splash onto his skin.

  “Do not die, Bane, please do not die.”

  The Demon Lord coughed, his lips drawing back to reveal white teeth. His eyes opened, vivid blue against the crimson whites, releasing more bloody tears that trickled into his hair.

  He whispered, “Damned... mother hen.”

  Her heart leapt. “Thank the goddess. How do you feel?”

  He blinked. “Half... dead.”

  “Then you are half alive.”

  Bane grunted, and his eyes drifted closed. The landscape darkened. Black clouds blotted out the sunlight, and an eerie tingling in the air made her hair bristle. Lightning illuminated the clouds with silver flashes, and the wind plucked at her with cold fingers. The Black Lord was rising, here, and now.

  She looked down at Bane. “The Black Lord is coming.”

  “Good.”

  “He will kill me.”

  Thunder rumbled as Bane’s eyes opened again, allowing more blood to escape. He gazed at the stormy grassland, and Mirra prayed that the dragonroot had started to take effect. Time was running out. The tension in the air was like a silent scream as the Overworld struggled against the Black Lord’s rising. Clouds raced across the sky and lightning flickered constantly. The very fabric of the Overworld protested; the air stiff with electrical animosity.

  The Black Lord rose with terrifying suddenness. A black circle appeared not twenty feet away and spread outwards at an astonishing speed, the grass hissing as the dark fire consumed it, the soil whining. Natural fire flared as the grass caught alight, and dozens of smaller circles began to form. Fire demons manifested in blasts of sick light and earth demons erupted all about the huge blackened circle, heaving upwards swiftly. Mirra’s heart pounded, and she clutched Bane’s shirt. A black form rose from the centre of the huge circle, red sparks spiralling within it, exuding evil power in chilling waves.

  The Black Lord took a man-shape, and opened yellow eyes. Slit pupils contracted, then his fiery maw curved in a malevolent smile. Mirra wanted to run, but was riveted by the awful sight. The demons surrounded their master, larger than him, yet far less powerful. Shadows seemed to gather to him, and Mirra’s stomach heaved.

  Bane smiled and whispered, “Father.”

  The Black Lord laughed. “So, you survived, Bane. What a tenacious human you are.” His deep, powerful voice boomed across the space between them. He wagged a finger. “You were supposed to die. You have been a bad boy.”

  Bane frowned. “So I could have a dark form?”

  “No, my boy. So you could go to the Land of the Dead, with the rest of the humans; for a little while, anyway.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The Black Lord shook his head, red sparks cascading from the blackness. “I am not your father, boy. You are the misbegotten son of a love sick peasant girl and a lusty woodcutter.”

  Bane’s eyes grew icy. “You lied?”

  “I lied.” The Black Lord threw back his head and laughed. “I am the father of lies! I needed you to break the wards. I made sure you would not outlive your purpose, but a meddling healer has prolonged your suffering.” His eyes burnt Mirra. “Not that I mind. You brought it upon yourself. You disobeyed me, and now you will pay. Lie in the dust and die, boy. I go to conquer my new land.”

  “You bastard.”

  The Black Lord sniggered. “Ah, your mother screamed so delightfully when I tore you from her belly. A pity it was over so quickly, and then I had to care for you, a dirty human brat. What a trial it was, dealing with your messy upbringing, your wet, Overworld ways.”

  “I shall destroy you,” Bane rasped.

  “No, you will not. You will lie there and die. You have done well. You fulfilled my expectations excellently. Now, you are expendable.”

  A fire demon moved towards the fallen Demon Lord, and Mirra recognised Mealle.

  The Black Lord turned his midnight head. “No. Even now he is more powerful than you, Mealle. Let him die slowly.”

  The fire demon hissed and withdrew. The Black Lord motioned, and a demon steed rose from a grass fire to bow to him. He mounted it. “Farewell, fool. We will visit you in the Land of the Dead. That, I promise.”

  With a malicious guffaw, he urged the steed forward, and it sprang away in a flash, hooves drumming. The fire demons shrank to flames that trailed him in a swarm of sparks, the earth demons pounded behind on long legs, diving into the ground as they were left behind, to travel below. Invisible air demons fluttered the grass with their frigid foetor as they raced after him.

  Mirra relaxed as the black power waned. Bane’s brows knotted, and he covered his eyes with a shaking hand, his mouth grim.

  “Bane, it is not your fault. He tricked you. He is the Black Lord. You stood no chance. You were just a child. You must help us now, please. We need you.”

  He let his hand drop. “I am useless.”

  “No, you are not. He expected you to die. He planned it. But you lived through it, and only you have the power to stand against him.”

  Bane closed his eyes and shook his head, his expression despairing.

  “Do not give up now,” she pleaded. “The Overworld needs you. Fight for us. Fight for goodness, and truth, and purity, redeem yourself, avenge
yourself.”

  He groaned, “Damn you, let me die.”

  “No! That is what he wants. You can beat him. Without you, we are lost, all of us. And you promised me. You said you would save me.”

  Bane made a feeble attempt to rise, but flopped back, cursing under his breath. She cradled his head, stroking his hair until he jerked away with a growl. He closed his eyes, and she waited as the sky blackened further. Distant lightning illuminated it with garish flashes, and almost constant thunder boomed. Bane lay so still that she kept checking his pulse to make sure he had not slipped away to the Land of the Dead. The sky grew blacker still as night fell, the moon and stars hidden.

  Mirra waited, growing stiff from sitting on the hard ground. The wind rose and prodded her; the earth sucked the warmth from her legs. The night seemed interminable, and she wondered if it would ever end, but at last dawn greyed the clouds, and Bane woke, coughing. He attempted to sit up, and fell sideways. Mirra tried to help him, but he pulled away, sprawling again as his limbs failed him.

  “Leave me alone.”

  His voice was stronger, and she rejoiced. His struggles were painful to watch, yet seemed to give him strength. Soon, he sweated and shivered, but he levered himself upright and scowled at her.

  “See what I have become; a puny, grovelling human, unable even to stand.”

  Mirra met his fierce eyes, which held the helpless defiance of a trapped wolf facing the hunter. Yet his evil majesty remained. Even though he lacked the strength to stand, he was still the Demon Lord.

  “You can still win,” she murmured. “You still have the power. You just need to get better.”

  Bane gave a bitter, husky chuckle. “I am defeated. The Black Lord has risen, and you were right. You told the truth. How stupid you must have thought me.”

  “No. You could not know. He raised you, spun you lies. It was all you knew.”

  He bowed his head, wings of hair sliding forward to hide his face. “Let me die.”

  “I will not. I cannot, any more than you could have left me to perish, or killed me.”

  Mirra rose and staggered on stiff legs to the tent, where she found his Underworld food. Lighting a fire with flint and iron, she heated it and took it to him.

  He glared at her, trembling with the effort of sitting up. “Leave me alone.”

  “No. You must eat. I will force it down you if I must. It is not good food, but there is nothing else.”

  Fury flared in his eyes. “So now you think you can give me orders?”

  “You have not the strength to fight me. Right now, I am stronger than you.” She scooped up a spoonful and held it poised before his grim mouth. “Open up.”

  For a moment, she thought he would lash out, and dreaded the tussle that might ensue, but then he smiled wryly and took the bowl. She plied him with wine, which he slugged back in copious amounts until his eyes drooped. By the afternoon, he had consumed most of the wine supply, and stared at the fallen ward while she gathered more dragonroot and flowers for the pain potion.

  When she finished her tasks and returned to him, he appeared stronger, but exceedingly drunk. His eyes had stopped bleeding, to her relief, but the whites remained crimson and his lips looked like he had eaten fresh blood. He was still too weak to walk, so she spent a second night at his side, unable to leave him alone. Bane’s exhaustion was so profound that he slept through it, and the wine helped. Mirra curled up in a blanket beside him, and woke several times, afraid of the things that crept about in the pitch blackness, but nothing came near her.

  Morning dawned grim and grey, black clouds locked together in an endless blanket. After eating a little more stew, Bane struggled to his feet, leaning on her, his knees buckling at every step. She staggered under his weight, and the corruption in him sickened her. Inside the tent, he sank down on the bed and stretched out. She spread a blanket over him and removed his boots, wincing at the sight of his swollen, blackened foot.

  Leaving him to rest, she went to the tent flap and gazed out at the brooding sky, wondering if she would ever see a blue one again. Many questions plagued her, foremost of which was whether Bane would cast the Black Lord back down into the Underworld. Only he could do it now. The Lady did not have the power to intervene. If he refused, the Overworld was doomed, and all its inhabitants would perish from starvation when the vegetation died, those that the Black Lord did not slaughter.

  Unless Bane chose to fight him and won, the Overworld would become a dead world under a pall of perpetual clouds. Only demons and the dead would inhabit a haunted wasteland. The Black Lord would banish the rain and allow the soil to become dust, and the wind would blow it away into the sea. Even the dark creatures would succumb without sustenance. The fate of the world rested on the shoulders of the Demon Lord, who hated it.

  Although wounded by the dark power he wielded, scarred by the betrayal of the only being he had ever trusted and weakened by the seeds of destruction the Black Lord had sown in him, Bane alone could save the Overworld, with the help of a powerless healer.

  ****

  The tale continues in Book II, Dark God, followed by Book III, Grey God, Book IV, Lord of Shadows, Book V, God Realm, Book VI, Son of Chaos, and Book VII, Dark Domain.

  About the Author

  T. C. Southwell was born in Sri Lanka and her family moved to the Seychelles when she was a baby. She spent her formative years exploring the islands – mostly alone. Naturally, her imagination flourished and she developed a keen love of other worlds. The family travelled through Europe and Africa and, after the death of her father, settled in South Africa. T. C. Southwell has written over thirty novels and five screenplays. Her hobbies include motorcycling, horse riding and art.

  All illustrations and cover designs by the author.

  Visit the Demon Lord Blog: https://www.demon-lord-book.blogspot.com

  Acknowledgements

  Mike Baum and Janet Longman, former employers, for their support, encouragement, and help. My mother, without whose financial support I could not have dedicated myself to writing for ten years. Isabel Cooke, former agent, whose encouragement and enthusiasm led to many more books being written, including this one. Suzanne Stephan, former agent, who has helped me so much over the course of six years, and Vanessa Finaughty, best friend and former business partner, for her support, encouragement and editing skills.

  First published in 2006 by WIZARD PRESS

  An imprint of STEPHAN PHILLIPS

  Distributed in southern Africa by STEPHAN PHILLIPS