T. C. Southwell

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CHAPTER THREE (cont)

The First Ward

Bane marched through the town to a small church built from grey stone, trimmed with chalk-white rock around the windows and roof edges. A small trampled garden bordered the path that led to the large wooden doors hinged and bound with copper. He towed her into the pew crowded interior, where a dead priest lay sprawled across the altar, blood pooling under him.

"Where is the ward?" Bane's voice cracked across the chapel, and the men who were busy looting the gold and silver from the altar scattered to the walls, clutching their booty. One pointed to a small wooden door at the back of the church, fastened with a stout iron lock.

"In there, lord."

Bane strode over to it and ripped it open, splintering the seasoned oak as if it was balsa. He ducked through the door, pulling her after him like a dog on a lead. They entered a tiny wood panelled room, a small stained glass window letting in shafts of coloured light to illuminate the pale tiled floor. A beautiful mosaic of an intricate pentagram patterned the white tiles with deep blue, and Mirra's spirits rose at the sight of it. The tiny room was filled with a pure power, a sweet tingle that ran along her skin like the touch of cool water. Bane walked around the pentagram, careful not to step on the lines. Going over to the window, he pulled shut the thick velvet curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Glowing blue lines became visible, a second pentagram hanging in the air some three feet above the design on the floor.

"Aha." He smirked, studying the ward. "The work of an amateur, it seems."

Despite his scorn, Bane gazed at the ward for several moments, weighing up its danger. Mirra sensed the power of the ward magic, the subtle frisson that trickled over her skin from the warm blue light. Its friendly glow made her long to touch it, to revel in the wonderful magic that kept the Overworld safe from the Black Lord's foul invasion. She knew that it would not harm her, but Bane had no such immunity from its power. The ward brightened at his proximity, as if sensing the threat to its existence. Bane's expression betrayed his hatred of it; he saw it only as one of the locks that held his father trapped in the Underworld.

Mirra shrank into a corner as his eyes filled with shadows, glowing with evil power. He raised his hands, and the dark fire spat from his fingers, engulfing the radiant blue lines. A brief, vivid battle ensued, black against blue, filling the air with an eerie, preternatural light. Power crackled around the tiny room, making Mirra's hair bristle and her stomach roil. The lines of blue light flared to an almost blinding brilliance, forcing her to look away, spots dancing in her eyes.

For a moment the ward magic prevailed against Bane's dark power, light against shadow, and good against evil, pitted in an unequal struggle until the darkness engulfed the ward. The blue magic seemed to shatter with a sound like tearing cloth, vanishing in a burst of sparkles and gleams that quickly faded, plunging the room into darkness. Bane lowered his arms. Sweat sheened his forehead, and his eyes turned blue again slowly, the whites bloodshot. He stared down at the mosaic pentagram, then raised a boot and smashed his heel into it. The delicate tiles shattered, and the ward was broken.

The pure essence of the ward had vanished with its pale light, and Mirra shivered as it was replaced by Bane's dark aura, which filled the tiny room with cold. He raised his head and smirked at her.

"One down, six to go. Nothing can withstand my power."

"But it hurts you."

"That does not matter." He shrugged. "I do my father's will."

"And then?"

"Do not question me, girl!"

Bane grabbed the rope and yanked her through the door, back into the church where the looters hid among the pews.

"The first ward is broken!" he announced, and a muted cheer went up as he tugged her from the church, muttering, "Dolts. When my father comes, they will all perish."

Mirra trotted to keep up with his long strides as he marched through the town. Screams still echoed along the streets as people suffered at the hands of his troops. The sound of running feet could be heard as survivors tried desperately to evade their fate, but the chases always ended in screams. Bane paused to watch a young boy run along the roof tops, leaping from house to house with amazing agility. Two rock howlers pursued him, whooping with delight. Silently Mirra prayed that he would escape, but a tile cracked under his foot and he slipped, plunging to the street with a sickening thud. The rock howlers moaned in disappointment, then went off in search of other entertainment.

Bane grunted, tugging her forward again. Mirra turned away when he paused to watch terrible atrocities being performed, the pain making her sick. Churches were desecrated; their altars used as sacrificial tables by the Black Lord's worshippers. Blood ran like water in the gutters, twisted bodies clogged the streets and thronged in houses where people had sheltered. Human troops staggered drunkenly through the streets, draped with booty, singing raucous songs.

Trolls gathered in muttering huddles to munch piles of looted meat, uncaring of whether it was smoked, cooked or raw. Goblins and rock howlers thronged the rooftops, gibbering gleefully. Gnomes, like their human comrades, gathered in empty inns and drained their cellars. In the deepening dusk, the dark creatures skulked in the shadows; many crouched over writhing victims as they fed. Mirra shivered as they passed these beasts, sensing their hungry, hateful eyes upon her. The town stank of blood and death, a sickly smell that clogged her throat and brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

Bane chose a large inn to settle in, Mord attending him with cowering subservience. Rough wooden tables stood on a rush covered floor, some overturned by the struggle that had taken place here earlier. Once this had been a cosy village inn, its whitewashed walls hung with cheerful paintings, bright curtains at the windows. Now it reeked of death, the pale rushes stained with blood, the curtains ripped, corpses lying where they had fallen, their faces stretched with fear and pain.

Bane tied Mirra to a table in the corner, not bothering to loosen the bonds on her wrists. Mord brought his master the drug that eased his headache, which had already started to build behind Bane's eyes. Sweat sheened his pale skin, and a deep frown wrinkled his brow as he waited for the troll to prepare his supper. This was simply a matter of decanting the foul sludge from the large metal pots in which it was transported and heating it on a small fire. She watched him eat, her stomach clenched with revulsion. Bane did not bother to remove the bodies that littered the inn, letting them lie where they had fallen, unless they got in his way, whereupon he kicked them aside.

After his duties were done, Mord vanished, leaving Mirra alone with Bane. He drank steadily from a large flagon of wine, celebrating his victory in silent solitude. This was just one of many victories, and a minor one at that, for Bane had never known defeat. But this was the first ward that he had broken. Mirra was saddened by his solitary existence, remembering her friends at the abbey, and how much fun it was to chat and joke with them. Bane sank into an intoxicated stupor, his eyes growing dull as he mulled over the day. Sitting on the floor, she did nothing to attract his drunken rage, and eventually he slumped over the table.

Bane dreamt vividly of his father, the Black Lord in all his dark, fiery glory, his yellow eyes burning with triumph. A wave of pleasure washed through Bane, the Black Lord's reward. The vision behind him was a placid one, a smooth red desert glowing under a crimson sun. It reflected his good mood, flicking out to be replaced by swirling red and yellow.

The Black Lord spoke in a soft, deep voice. "Soon we will rule the world, just you and I, Son. The human rabble must be eradicated, and only demons will walk in the Overworld."

"But Father, they will not like the bright light up here, I find it hard to bear."

The Black Lord chuckled. "You think I will leave the world as it is? It will be changed to suit us, Son, never fear.

Bane nodded.

"Why have you not killed that damned girl?" Black streaks appeared in the swirling background.

"She will die of thirst within a few more days."

"Excellent. I am well pleased, Son. Now break the second ward, and I shall be even more pleased with you." The Black Lord smirked, and the vision brightened once more as he relaxed, then faded away as the dream ended.

Bane woke with a pounding headache and a furry taste in his mouth. Bright morning sunlight slanted in through the torn curtains to dapple the carnage with spots of gold. Spying a cup of his soothing drug before him on the table, he slugged it back. The girl was curled up asleep on the floor, her head pillowed on a small pile of torn curtains. He scowled, an ugly mood settling on him to accompany the hammering in his head and the sour bubbling of his gut. She was his prisoner, yet he suffered more than her, she barely seemed troubled by her bondage, and even slept peacefully in his presence. As yet she had not pleaded for food or water, denying him the satisfaction of listening to her beg. Rising to his feet, he swayed as his head throbbed, his vision blurring. Nausea overtook him, and he staggered to the door and vomited. When he returned to the table, another cup of the drug awaited him upon it. He drank it, then went over to the sleeping girl. She did not stir as he stood over her, and he reached down to grasp the rope around her neck.

Mirra woke with a gasp as she was dragged to her feet, the rope cutting into her neck. The cord drew tight on the table leg, and Bane broke it with a savage jerk. He kept pulling, forcing her onto her toes, then the rope started to choke her. Mirra quelled the urge to struggle, knowing it to be both futile and satisfying to him. Death held no terror for her, although she did not want to die. She gazed sadly into his eyes as her breath was cut off, remaining limp and docile, resigned to her fate. There was no pain, but soon her vision darkened, and her knees buckled.

Bane smiled as she sagged, watching with deep satisfaction as her skin mottled and her face started to swell. A few more seconds, and she would be dead, yet still she did not suffer. With a growl of rage, he sent her flying with a backhand blow.

Mirra crashed into the furniture, unconscious, and sprawled under a table. Bane went after her, hauling her out and shaking her until she came to with a gasp.

"You will not escape me that easily, witch," he snarled, white teeth bared. "I shall see you suffer before you die."

Mirra hung in his hands, the evil power within him making her skin prickle. With a final shake that rattled her teeth, he dragged her out of the inn, wincing and shielding his eyes from the bright sun. Spotting a loitering soldier, he yelled, "You there!"

The soldier 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 at the man, causing her to stumble into him. "If I do not, I will make you suffer in her stead."

The soldier gripped Mirra's arm, bowing to Bane, then pulled her away down the street as Bane turned and re-entered the inn. He led her to a house several streets away, from which raucous singing wafted. Fifteen men were gathered in the house's large courtyard, feasting on looted food and wine. They sat or lounged around an ornamental fountain amid smashed furniture and ripped curtains. The fountain still played its musical tune, but the plants around it were trampled and crushed, the water filthy.

Two men snored loudly in a corner, the rest seemed to have partied all night, and most of them were too drunk to stand. Glad cries arose when the soldier entered with his ragged captive, and many rough hands dragged her among them, plucking at her robe. Mirra was speechless with shock at their rough handling and lecherous leers, frightened by the glint in their eyes. As a healer, she was unused to such treatment, and had never been accosted in this manner. Before she could protest and identify herself, a man by the fountain stood up and walked over.

"Wait." His companions hesitated, looking at him, and he stared at Mirra with bleary brown eyes. "She's the healer."

Mirra recognised him as one of the men whom she had healed at the camp in the meadow, and smiled. The others were strangers, men who had left just after she had been captured. They growled, angered that their fun had been curtailed. 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 injured limb. Since her hands were tied behind her back, she leaned over and kissed his hand, healing him. The soldier took off the bandage and stared at his arm with awe.

Someone untied her hands, and she turned to smile at the brown eyed man with a careworn face framed by plaited black hair, rubbing her wrists. He wore a motley collection of dull clothes under a suit of rusted chain mail with a rent in one side. Although short, he was powerfully built, and the copper bands encircling 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, turning 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, I am a healer."

He raised a placating hand. "No, no, I wasn't suggesting that we hurt you, we all respect healers, and they're much needed in a war. Many men have injuries, and we ask that you heal them now that Bane has let you out of his sight. But if you scream, he'll believe that 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, glancing around at the rough, unshaven faces smeared with dirt and drawn with fatigue. Most looked like they had once been honest farmers, their faces weather-beaten, their hands calloused from ploughing and hoeing. They were, she realised, as much Bane's victims as she was, forced to do his killing for him, or die. Many had probably been press ganged into service; others joined up rather than be slaughtered themselves. Most of the humans in Bane's army were mercenaries or soldiers from other armies, drawn by loot and conquest, but this group did not appear to be made up of such men. They had picked up some bad habits, however, indicated by their initial rough handling of her.

"Then I will do as you ask."

Benton nodded briskly. "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 heal them. Healers only feel the pain of others." She shivered again. "I suffer just from being near him, for he is in pain constantly."

"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 that 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 went out and came back carrying a young girl. She hung limp in his arms, unconscious, her body burned and bruised, covered with cuts and scrapes. Mirra tried to go to her, but Benton restrained her.

"No, Healer, you cannot 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."

Chapter 3 Continued