Demon Lord

by T C Southwell

Bane’s evil power made Mirra’s skin prickle as he shook her again and towed her outside, wincing and shielding his eyes from the sun. Spotting a loitering soldier, he yelled, “You there!”

  The man jumped and backed away. “Lord?”

  “Take this piece of trash and torture her. Make sure she suffers! I want to hear her scream!” Bane shoved her, sending her to stumbling into the man. “If I do not, I will make you suffer in her stead.”

  The soldier took Mirra’s arm and bowed to Bane before pulling her away down the street as Bane re-entered the inn. The man led her to a house several streets away, whence raucous singing wafted. In the courtyard, fifteen men feasted on looted food and wine. They sat or lounged around an ornate fountain amidst smashed furniture and ripped drapes. The fountain still played its musical tune, but the plants around it were trampled and crushed, the water filthy.

  Two men snored in a corner, the rest seemed to have partied all night, and most were too drunk to stand. Glad cries arose when the soldier entered, and many rough hands dragged Mirra amongst them, plucking at her robe. Their lecherous leers and glinting eyes frightened and shocked her.

  “Wait.” A man by the fountain stood up and approached, and his cohorts paused while he surveyed her with bleary brown eyes. “She’s the healer.”

  Mirra recognised him as one of the men she had healed at the camp in the meadow, and smiled. The others were strangers, presumably men who had left just after she had been captured. They growled, angered that their fun had been revoked. Several argued that she was not a healer, since she wore no white robe. A bearded man with a bandaged arm came to her, holding out the limb. She kissed his hand, healing him. The soldier took off the bandage and stared at his arm.

  Someone untied her hands, and she turned to smile at the brown-eyed man, whose square, careworn face was framed by plaited black hair. He wore a motley collection of drab clothes under a rusted chainmail shirt with a rent in one side. Although short, he was powerfully built, and the copper bands that encircled his upper arms proclaimed him to be a member of a fierce warrior tribe from the far north. He also appeared to be relatively sober, compared to the others.

  The young soldier who had brought her protested, “The Lord told me to torture her. He said he wants to hear her scream.”

  “Does he now?” The brown-eyed soldier looked thoughtful, and said to Mirra, “My name’s Benton, and I fear we’ll have to oblige Bane, or we’ll all suffer.”

  “I understand, but I do not feel pain.”

  He raised a hand. “No, no, I wasn’t suggesting we hurt you. We respect healers, and they’re much needed in a war. Many men have injuries, and we ask that you heal them now Bane has let you out of his sight. But if you scream, he’ll believe we’re doing as he ordered. You understand?”

  She nodded. “I do, but it is dishonest, for I will not be truly hurt.”

  “We don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t do this he’ll punish us.”

  “Why does he want to hurt me?”

  Benton gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Because he’s evil, healer. He’s the Demon Lord! He enjoys seeing others suffer. He loves to kill and torture. You stand for everything that’s pure and good. You, he wants to suffer more than anyone.”

  Mirra shivered and cast an eye over the dirty, unshaven men. Most looked like they had once been honest farmers, with weather-beaten faces and hands callused from ploughing and hoeing. They were, she realised, as much Bane’s victims as she was, forced to do his killing or die. Many had probably been pressganged into service; others had joined up rather than be slaughtered. Most of the men in Bane’s army were mercenaries or soldiers from other armies, drawn by loot and conquest, but not this group. They had picked up some bad habits, however, judging by their initial rough handling of her.

  “Then I will do as you ask.”

  Benton nodded. “Now, if he asks how we hurt you, what shall we tell him?”

  “To hurt a healer, you must inflict pain on another, close by, without allowing the healer to help them. Healers only feel the pain of others. I suffer just from being near him; he is in constant pain.”

  “Him? Mord says he has headaches, nothing more.”

  “He does, but there is more to it than that. He suffers all the time.”

  Benton frowned. “Well, you’d best not tell him his presence hurts you, or he’ll use it against you.” He looked around. “Madick, bring that girl in here. Is she still alive?”

  A soldier disappeared through a side door and returned carrying an unconscious girl who was burnt and bruised, covered with cuts and scrapes. Mirra tried to go to her, but Benton restrained her.

  “No, you can’t help her. If Bane comes to see why you’re screaming, we’ll use her, so leave her be.”

  Mirra yearned to help the child, unable to tear her eyes away, and Benton jerked his head at the other man. The soldier took the girl out again, and Mirra slumped.

  Benton led her to a window. “Now, healer, scream.”

  Mirra’s first attempts were not convincing. It seemed foolish and dishonest, and her screams were more like fluting cries. The men shouted encouragement, and she shrieked louder. Soon the soldiers roared and Mirra screamed at the top of her lungs, terrible, agonised sounds.

  Benton grinned, patting her shoulder. “That should be music to his ears.”

  Mirra shrieked in unison with the men’s roars, until she grew tired of it. Then she healed the wounded, whose injuries were only cuts and sprains gained in battle. A man was despatched to find more wounded, and Mirra eyed the spread of raided food on the table.

  Benton indicated the feast. “Eat all you want.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot. He would punish you, as he did the two men who fed me when we were on the march.”

  He scowled, his eyes glinting. “He’s determined to torture you, yet most of us will perish fighting his battles anyway. I say eat, and the consequences be damned.” He glanced at his friends, most of whom looked away, betraying their unwillingness to be punished for feeding her. He went on, “He should be satisfied that we’ve tortured you. He might not realise you’ve eaten. It’s one thing to avoid punishment by faking your torture, but I’m willing to risk it so you can eat.”

  “No. I will not be the reason for anyone to be whipped and left to die. He means to torment me anyway. There is no need for you to share my fate.”

  Benton opened his mouth to protest further, but Mirra placed a hand on his arm and smiled. He shrugged and wandered away to sit with his fellows, probably thinking her hunger would drive her to eat when she could no longer bear the sight of the food. She averted her eyes from it, determined not to be tempted, and lay down on the floor, surrounded by the muttering men. One of them gave her a brocaded pillow, and she closed her eyes, the gentle tug of sleep enticing her.

  The temperature seemed to drop, and she sat up, startled, as the men scattered, Benton knocking her backwards as he passed. She struggled upright again, a little dazed by the speed of events, and a shadow fell on her. Bane’s eyes glowed as he surveyed the men who cowered in the corners.

  “How did you torment her?”

  Benton inched forward, his head bowed. “Lord. We tortured another, and she felt it worse than the victim.”

  Bane’s malicious smile revealed even white teeth. “Of course, you know how to torture your own.”

  Benton cowered, and Bane dragged Mirra to her feet, his fingers digging into her arm. “Now I can have the satisfaction of doing it myself, witch.”

  Mirra shared his pain as he led her back to the inn, biting her lip. Throngs of corpses, and the black birds that hopped over them, were all that populated the streets, the men and gnomes all within the buildings, drinking or sleeping. Most of the trolls, goblins and rock howlers, uninterested in alcohol or loot, camped in the woods, where they were more at home. A gleam of red eyes in a shady street revealed that the dark creatures still inhabited the town, preferring the gloom of cellars.

  When th
ey arrived at the inn, Bane pushed her onto a chair and tied her to it with twine. While he was bent over her, she studied his face at close quarters, finding it hard to believe he was human. His skin was so fine, smooth and matt. His long black hair gleamed like a raven’s wing. His good looks belied the tales that those who worshipped the Black Lord were ugly, mutilated and dirty, but then, he was not a worshipper, she surmised. He had no scent, and his aura of power made her hair bristle.

  When he moved away to sit beside a bloating corpse and sip his wine, she said, “I share your pain, so there is no need to torture others.”

  His brows rose. “My pain? Oh, so my company is painful to you?”

  She nodded.

  “Excellent, then I will have to arrange some more for you to share.” He leant forward, rolling the golden cup between his palms. “I am not talking about the headaches. Those are merely annoying. You see, where I come from, I learnt to deal with a great deal of pain, even to enjoy it.” He grinned, a half snarl. “If it will hurt you too, so much the better.”

  He turned his head and shouted, “Mord!” The troll appeared from the next room, and Bane ordered, “Fetch the potions. It is time I had a cleansing. This foul world is softening me.”

  The troll scuttled into the back room again, and Bane stood up and unclipped his cloak, dropping it over the corpse, then unfastened his tunic. He stripped it off, revealing a powerful torso. Each muscle was defined, sharp-edged, rippling as he moved, but her eyes were riveted to the seven ugly scars that marred his chest in a deep ‘V’. They looked ritualistic, carved in patterns of evil meaning, stark against his skin. They were runes, she realised, symbols of dark power cut into his flesh.

  Bane asked, “Do these shock your puritanical little mind?”

  Mirra shook her head as she tore her eyes from the scars. “How could anyone do that to you?”

  “No one did it to me. I did it to myself, to gain power, girl. Power is what matters; the power to rule the world.”