T. C. Southwell

___________________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER THREE (cont)

The First Ward

Mirra did not see Bane for two days, and each night two men came to be healed, bringing food and water. When she found herself healing an ingrown toenail, she realised that she had won their pity. The nights were too cold for her to sleep, her shivering kept her awake, and the drizzle that usually fell before dawn added to her misery. During the day she managed to doze a little, hanging in her bonds, waking with a stiff neck and a nasty sensation that she was becoming part of the tree to which she was bound. The unanswered questions about Bane and her uncertain future plagued her, but her mind only ran in circles when she thought about that. Instead, she concentrated on keeping warm at night and getting as much sleep as she could during the day. On the third day, Bane came to inspect her, scowling at her good health.

"Why are you not half dead from thirst, witch?" Before she could answer, he swung around and roared, "Traitors!"

Across the meadow, men leapt up from their campfires and sprinted for the woods. The Demon Lord snarled with rage, and his eyes filled with inky blackness. Dark fire burst from him, and he lashed her with it, making her writhe as nausea filled her. With a flick of his hand, he sent a bolt of it across the valley, gouging a chunk out of the ground behind the fleeing men. Bane shouted for Mord, and the troll scuttled up, almost crawling, abasing himself, his face screwed up with terror.

Bane gestured at Mirra. "Cut her down. Wash the stink from her, and bring her to my tent. Those bastards will not be feeding her again."

Bane strode back to his tent, the jet cloak swirling about him as if fuelled to animation by his rage. Mord ran to get help, returning with two reluctant gnomes. When they cut her bonds, Mirra found that she could not stand, her rubbery legs ignoring the commands of her mind. They carried her to a stream in the forest and washed her with coarse soap, scrubbing the grime from her short golden hair. Mord trimmed it with his knife, hacking off the remaining tresses that hung from her scalp in tangled clumps. When she was clean, they wrapped her in an old, threadbare green robe and carried her to Bane's tent.

The Black Lord's son sat on the bed, clutching his head. When Mord entered, he snarled, "What took you so long? Fetch my medicine!"

Mord darted out, and the gnomes dumped Mirra on the floor and fled. Bane glared at her, his eyes bloodshot, his pale skin sheened with sweat. "Now you smell like a damned harlot."

Mirra sat up and reached out to him, sensing his pain in palpable waves. "Let me help you."

He smacked her hands away. "I do not need your damned help!"

"You suffer."

"Leave me alone, witch!"

Mord dashed inside, cowering, and put a cup on the small table before fleeing again. Mirra winced as Bane drained the drug.

"That will kill you."

"Rubbish."

"It is poison."

"Be silent! All of a sudden you have a lot to say, and I do not want to hear it. Must I gag you?"

Bane threw the cup at her and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his temples, his face drawn with weariness. Mirra sat quietly until his slow breathing told her that he slept, then crept closer, forcing her legs to work a little. Her very nature cried out to help him, his pain hurt her deeply, and she longed to ease it. Laying her fingertips on his arm, she sensed again the alien power that blocked her healing. She concentrated, trying to push past it. He jerked awake and lashed out, striking her in the face and knocking her back against the tent wall. The hurts healed as she turned to find him sitting up, his face thunderous.

"Keep your filthy hands off me!"

Mirra looked at her hands, which were clean. "But they are not -"

"Silence!"

She subsided, and he ran a hand through his hair, combing it into glossy, feather-like layers. For a moment he contemplated her, then rose and tied her hands behind her with twine. That done, he went back to sleep.

For two days she neither ate nor drank, watching him eat evil, reddish food, and drink a lot of strong wine. For the most part he ignored her, studying his maps or leaving her alone when he strolled among his men. Apart from ordering Mord around he spoke to no one, and seemed to wish no company, occasionally glaring at her as if her very presence, silent and unobtrusive though it was, offended him. Apart from when Mord took her to use the trench latrine, she spent all her time curled up in the corner of the tent.

On the third day, a troll runner came in with a message. Bane was seated at his table, maps spread across it as usual, a cup of wine in one hand. He watched as the hairy creature abased himself; then gestured for him to rise, snapping, "What is it?"

"Lord, we've found a ward, in the sea town of Agaspen."

"Is it in a church?"

"Yes, Lord."

A cold smile spread across Bane's face as he straightened. He put down the cup of wine with a bang, sloshing its contents and making the troll whimper with fear.

"We march!" The troll darted out, and he sneered at Mirra, "A bit of marching should sap your strength. Everyone dies of thirst, witch, even you."

Mirra gazed at him, unable to think of anything to say in reply to this, besides which, her mouth was too dry to speak.

Amid much bustle and shouting the camp was struck, and Bane mounted the red dragon, leading the troops along the road. The horde straggled after him, its ranks swelled by those squadrons that had returned from their search, overflowing the road to blacken the land. Mirra walked among them, Mord leading her by a rope around her neck. As soon as Bane was far enough away, one of the men who walked beside her held a waterskin to her lips. Mord turned and snarled at the men, but they ignored him, and he was apparently unwilling to enter into a physical conflict over the matter. When she had drunk her fill, they gave her dry biscuits and bread. The food and water revived her, giving her the strength to walk for the rest of the day.

When they camped at dusk, Mord brought her to the Demon Lord's tent, and at the sight of her, he flew into a rage.

"Those bastards!" With a vicious backhand blow, he knocked her down. "They have been feeding you again, have they not? They have given you water!"

From where she lay, her bound arms under her, she nodded. Bane swung around, and she caught a glimpse of Mord's fleeing hairy form.

"Mord!" Bane's bellow echoed around the camp, causing faraway men to abandon their campfires and race for the woods. "Bring them to me! I want those men, or I will torture every one of you! You will all pay!"

"Please do not," Mirra begged. "They were only being kind."

"Silence!" Bane kicked her, sending her rolling with a soft grunt.

In a remarkably short time, two terrified men were dragged before him, bound and bruised, their dirty clothes torn. They struggled in the brutish hands of four huge, rough looking men who obviously had no intention of paying for the crimes of the two good Samaritans. The ruffians pushed the hapless duo to their knees and backed away. Bane strode up to them, and they grovelled in abject terror, whimpering. Mirra recognised them, and her heart twisted. These were not two others chosen at random; they were the men who had helped her.

Rolling onto her side, she managed to get to her knees. "Bane, please do not punish them!"

He turned and slapped her, knocking her down again. "I told you to hold your tongue!"

The Demon Lord stood over the men for a moment, his hands on his hips, and then gestured to Mord. "Whip them, then bind them to stakes and leave them beside the road. They can suffer the same fate as the healer will, when the rest of these idiots have learned not to defy me." He raised his voice to address the hidden army. "When I say the witch does not eat or drink, she does not! Any who disobey will share her fate, just as these do."

The two men were dragged away, and Bane strode to his tent, thrusting aside the flap with a vicious blow and vanishing inside. Mirra lay where she had fallen, filled with anguish and misery. Soon the cries of the men pierced the night's hush, punctuated by the sharp crack of the lash on bare flesh. She wept softly in the darkness until Mord returned to drag her into the tent, where Bane already slept. He did not appear to awaken when she was dumped on the floor, and she curled up, eventually falling into an exhausted slumber. Her dreams were haunted by the muffled cries of the men who had helped her, and she jerked awake several times, her heart pounding with anguish.

The next day none of the men dared to come near her, but many cast her pitying looks. She kept her eyes downcast, unable to meet their glances, filled with a terrible guilt for those who had paid so dearly for their kindness. By midday she was stumbling, weak with hunger, dragged along by the rope. Her ordeal ended sooner than she expected when they reached a small town by the sea and stopped just after noon. The village was a huddle of stone houses surrounded by a high grey wall, only the red tiled roofs visible. It nestled against ancient cliffs, which bestrode the land like a huge step, dense woodland on top of it.

A checkerboard of cultivated fields surrounded the town, and livestock grazed in lush green pastures. The cliff curved away from the town where it invaded the sea, sheltering a small rocky cove that bristled with jetties and dozens of little fishing boats. This was not a seaport, where large sailing ships could dock, just a fishing village. Smoke rose from the chimneys in a semblance of normality, but the town had been warned of the army's approach, and its gates were closed. They had barricaded the tall wooden doors with overturned wagons outside, as well as within, Mirra guessed. Even now, the last of the men were being pulled up the walls with ropes, their task complete.

Bane smirked as he studied their futile efforts, his expression contemptuous. He had no need to tell his captains what to do, but merely sat and watched his men prepare for the attack. Trolls, armed with mighty double edged battle axes, went into the forest and felled several trees to use as battering rams. Each ram was carried by ten trolls, and they led the attack on the little town, trotting up the road which led to the tall gates, the huge rams a small burden for their great strength. The rest of the horde followed, shouting battle cries and beating their swords on their shields as they swarmed across the fields like a black tide rising to engulf the grey walled village in a foul sea of chanting, sword waving death.

The defenders were ill equipped and untrained, but they fought bravely from the walls, sending flights of arrows and spears whistling among Bane's motley army, killing many. When they ran out of spears, they used harpoons, boat hooks and sharpened stakes. At the wall, pots of boiling oil were tipped onto the attacker's heads, and they died screaming in agony, tearing at their steaming clothes. They pulled off parboiled skin with the garments, and their shrieks made Mirra's skin crawl.

Bane's army surged back like a wave rebounding from a cliff, withdrawing to a safe distance to wait for the gates to be broken down. The trolls battered the tall wooden doors with a great booming that echoed across the valley. Many died as they wielded the rams, despite the shields held over their heads to ward off the storm of arrows and oil that rained down from the defenders. Whenever a troll fell, another took his place from the waiting horde, and the progress of the rams barely faltered. The gates shuddered with every blow, growing weaker under the barrage, until they began to sway, loosened from their stout iron hinges.

Bane sat on the dragon, smiling with satisfaction as the gates gave way, swinging inward with a great squeal of tearing wood. His men charged into the town, and a distant screaming, mingled with the clash of arms and the whoops of the attackers, started as the populace was slaughtered. Soon black smoke poured from the stricken town, and small fishing boats put out to sea, bobbing sluggishly in the swells, crammed with people.

Mirra was glad that some of the people had escaped, but they were pitifully few. She prayed that the over laden boats would reach the next sea town, already their sails were stretched in the wind, and they listed dangerously with their burdens. The people who slipped through postern gates and tried to flee the town on foot were swiftly hunted down and slaughtered by Bane's men; those that made it to the dubious safety of the forest were ambushed by the dark creatures that waited there.

The Demon Lord watched from his vantage, his eyes narrowed against the bright sun. As soon as the screaming had died down, he dismounted and chained the dragon to a tree, striding towards Mirra, who waited with Mord. The troll scuttled away, dropping her rope. Bane picked it up and yanked her forward, leading her into the carnage. Most of the fallen soldiers outside the walls lay twisted and gaping in death, some bristling with arrows, others as red as boiled lobsters, streaked with black oil.

A few still twitched and groaned, begging for help, others hobbled or dragged themselves towards the town, where they might find medicine and bandages. Mirra's heart bled for their pain, her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she could hardly bear to look at them. Most, she was certain, would die slowly from their wounds or remain crippled, and eventually succumb to starvation or fall prey to the wolves that would come for the carrion. Bane did not spare a glance for his fallen troops, nor heed their despairing cries for help.

The hundreds of dead outside were nothing compared to the number within. Tears of grief and pity streaked Mirra's cheeks at the savage slaughter of innocents within the walls. Small children lay strangled, thin arms outstretched in helpless supplication; men and women had been crucified and gutted. Piles of corpses blocked streets and alleys where defenders had stood back to back. In the centre of each mound lay the women and children that the village men had been trying to protect. Everything, even the horses and dogs, had been slaughtered.

Bane laughed at her tears. "Good! Weep, stupid witch, cry like the weak human that you are. Soon you will perish too."

She swallowed a sob. "Why did you kill them?"

"Because they are in the way, and if they are not with me, they are against me."

Bane dragged her along a deserted street, his boots ringing on the cobbles, the long black cloak sweeping behind him. She stumbled after him, sick with horror. A young woman clutching a baby ran out in front of them, her eyes wide with panic as she fled from some unseen threat. She screamed and tried to scramble away from Bane, but he leapt after her and grabbed her long hair, yanking her back.

Dropping Mirra's tether, he drew the dagger and slew her brutally, plunging it into her belly and ripping her open in a gush of blood. She clutched her baby to her as she died, and Bane stabbed the child as well, ending its screams as he laughed with malicious delight. Mirra choked back her own scream of horror, and Bane did not seem to notice her tortured expression as he jerked her after him down the bloody street.

Chapter 3 Continued