T. C. Southwell

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CHAPTER THREE

The First Ward

That night as Bane tossed in restless sleep on his hard cot, the Black Lord entered his dreams, anger radiating from his dark, fiery countenance. Bane was engulfed in the seething blackness that his father preferred, streaked with red and vivid yellow. Occasional glimpses of weird landscapes gave him a little insight into the workings of the Black Lord's mind, since he created the vistas. Barren, flat expanses flitted before his eyes, some dotted with stones, others as smooth and flat as a table top, a sickly sun shining through thick clouds with a weak red light. From this Bane deduced that his father was fairly calm, which boded well for the meeting. His father's furies were inclined to be rather overwhelming, battering his mind with waves of senseless rage. The scenes came and went, distracting him until the Black Lord spoke in a booming voice.

"Bane, why did you not kill the healer?"

Bane turned his gaze upon his father's face, meeting the blood red eyes that glowed with dull venom. The Black Lord's visage was otherwise featureless, a reflection of his personality, or lack of it.

"I tried, Father."

"Then try harder, she must be killed."

"She is immune to my power, I am curious."

The Black Lord snarled, "Do not be curious, boy, kill her!"

"I want to know why she is unharmed by the dark power." Bane's eyes were drawn past his father to a vision of stormy sea, huge black waves crested with bloody spume, lit by a yellow glow on the horizon. The Black Lord's calmness was dwindling, it seemed.

The Black Lord growled, "This is no time for such foolishness! I tire of waiting while you wander aimlessly about, satisfying your bloodlust. Use the power and find the wards. Smash them, then we will share the final victory over those snivelling humans. And kill that damned girl!"

Bane grew more curious as the scene in his father's mind changed to a raging inferno that leapt and writhed with the Black Lord's fury. It puzzled him that his father thought it so important to kill the witch; she was just another human female, with an odd immunity to his power. He intended to find out why that was, and then kill her slowly, in the manner that he enjoyed. Before he could question his father further, the dream faded.

The next morning he thought about the girl while he ate his breakfast. Her immunity angered him. She should have burned, screaming in agony, but instead she had merely looked uncomfortable, as if she had a mild stomach-ache. The rabble had proven beyond doubt that physical attack could not harm her, and the problem of killing her puzzled him. To add to that, she had feigned concern for him, and lied, claiming to care about his well being when he knew full well that she wished him dead, like all the Overworld humans. Her offer of help was intended as an insult, to make his men think that he was weak or sick. He would find out why his power did not work, and then remedy it. Until then, she offered sport to brighten his days, which made up for the irritation of her unwanted presence somewhat.

After he had eaten, he summoned his captains. They gathered at a respectful distance, their eyes darting. The lone dark creature, a messenger who would carry his orders to the rest, watched Bane with glowing, hate filled eyes. It was a grim, one of the lesser monsters, a bug eyed horror with a matted black pelt and thin arms tipped with poisoned, razor claws. Its demeanour was worshipful, yet underscored by a deep, all encompassing loathing. The sunlight obviously caused it pain, for it squinted, and sticky ichors oozed from its hide. The others gave the squat, toad like creature a wide berth, and not only because of its nauseating smell. The red fangs that protruded from its mouth dripped venom that blackened the grass.

Bane ordered the men to search for the wards, still reluctant to scry for them as his father had ordered. Scrying used a great deal of power, and the headache that resulted would be excruciating. It meant a delay, for Bane would have to wait for the searchers to return, his force seriously diminished by their absence. The men left looking confused, for this was the first time that he had ordered them to do anything other than fight. The grim crawled away, trailing its smell into the shelter of the trees to join its fellows. The captains gathered their men and passed on his instructions. Each captain represented his own species or tribe, and they set out in groups that comprised only their own kind. There was no mixing of the different groups; each preferred the society of their ilk. The dark creatures remained in the deep shadows of the forest; they would only set out after dark.

At midday he wandered over to the tree at the edge of the forest where the girl was tied. She greeted him with a timid smile filled with all the pathetic friendliness of a whipped cur. It turned his stomach. Of all the humans he had encountered, she was undoubtedly the most sickening, annoying and pathetic.

He sneered, "Enjoying my hospitality, witch?"

"I am sure this is not meant to be enjoyable, and it is not."

Bane studied her. The golden hair was all but gone, her skin was smeared with filth, and a foul smell hung about her. The rags of her robe clung to her slender contours, barely covering them. Yet the calm serenity in her eyes defied him, told him not of suffering but mere confusion.

He snarled, "I could leave you here until you rot, are you too stupid to know fear?"

She regarded him steadily, her smile fading. Bane swung away and strode back to his tent. Her composure mocked him; she should be weeping, begging for mercy. All the humans he had encountered until now had pleaded for their lives, yet this young girl seemed able to accept her fate calmly, even when it was obvious that a painful death awaited her. She must be confident that he could not harm her, but he would find ways to make her suffer, and her pain would bring him satisfaction before he killed her.

Mirra watched him leave, wondering why he had tried so hard to hurt her, and now held her prisoner in this way. The future loomed dark and uncertain, so she did not dwell on it. Instead she watched the men split up into ragged squadrons and march off, heading in different directions as if the army was disbanding. She grew thirstier as the sun moved across the sky, glad that the tree to which she was bound at least offered some shade. By sunset, only a few hundred men remained in the meadow, camped on the far side, away from the big tent, its lone attendant and solitary occupant.

As darkness fell, a cool wind sprang up from the east, making her shiver at its chill touch. A furtive shape flitted through the deepening shadows towards her, making her peer at it nervously, unsure of what new peril it offered. She relaxed as she made out the ragged, unwashed soldier who approached, sensing no threat in him. He shifted uneasily as he stood before her, darting fearful glances over his shoulder.

"I didn't have anything to do with the beating, Healer," he muttered. "You healed me, so I reckon I owe you."

Mirra recognised the man whose leg she had healed, and hope surged within her. She managed a weak smile, her mouth too dry to speak. He pulled a waterskin from his coat and held it to her lips. The cool liquid slid down her burning throat, bringing blessed relief. Although her healing power would block the pain of wounds, it did not prevent the pangs of thirst and hunger. She made the most of his kindness, draining the waterskin.

When it was finished, she licked the last cool drops from her lips and smiled at him again. "Thank you. You are a kind man."

He shrugged, tucking the waterskin away. "One good turn deserves another."

"The goddess will bless those who help a healer."

"Reckon I'm beyond redemption, Healer."

Mirra shook her head. "All can be saved, if they repent."

The man grunted at her pious words, then slid away into the darkness before she could ask him to release her. She dozed for a while, drooping in the ropes, but jerked awake at the sound of soft footfalls. Another soldier crept towards her in the moonlight, a swarthy man with a scarred face and rusty, dented armour. He stopped before her, eyes darting, as his comrade had done.

"Healer, I've a pain, will you help?"

"Of course. Touch me."

The soldier laid a hand on her arm, and her power flowed into him, finding the cause of his pain, a large malignant tumour in his stomach. In a few moments it was healed, the pain fading, making the man sigh and smile with relief. He pulled some bread from his pouch and tore it into small chunks, feeding it to her before he crept away. Much later, she was woken again by a soft rain, which soaked the torn remnant of her robe and chilled her to the bone. For the rest of the night she shivered, the rope cutting into her arms as it swelled with the moisture.

When morning came, a warm, welcome sun edged free of the pink clouds and touched her with its glorious power, banishing the chill. The black clad man visited her, surveying her bedraggled state with evident satisfaction. She lifted her eyes to gaze at him, struck afresh by the purity of his sun gilded features.

"Do the bonds hurt, witch?"

"No."

"They damn well should." Scowling, he stepped closer, testing their tautness. His touch forced her to share his pain, and her healing power flowed, but again, it was repulsed. He found the ropes tight, and glared at her.

"Why is it that nothing hurts you, and my father orders me to kill you?"

"I do not know."

"I have killed healers before with the fire, they died like anyone else."

Sorrow blossomed within her. "Why did you kill them?"

"I felt like it! Do not question me!" He glowered at her, his eyes brilliant. "I shall find a way to make you suffer before you die, and when I do, you will rue the day you were born, witch."

Mirra watched him stride away, sadness settling on her like a dark shroud. There was no reason to kill healers, they only helped those in need, and never harmed anyone or anything. She had done nothing to deserve his hatred or his attempts at torturing her, and it made no sense. Even an invading army needed help for their wounded, and the healers could deny none, not even their enemies. He was filled with anger and bitterness, a pain so deep that it touched his very soul. She longed to free him from the darkness that hung about him, to find the reason for his suffering and cure it.

That night, two more men came to be healed, bringing food and water. One, a little bolder than the others, spoke to her for a while, and she learned how this army had formed, gathering around the dark man. When she asked about him, the soldier could tell her little, he seemed reluctant to talk about him, even afraid to mention his name. He claimed that he had joined the army to gain riches, and she pitied him. All the while, he kept glancing at the big leather tent, and Mirra sensed his fear.

"Why are you so afraid of him?" she asked.

"Why?" The man grunted. "Because of who he is, of course."

"Who is he?"

The soldier leant closer, giving her the benefit of his fetid breath. "He's Bane, the Demon Lord," he hissed.

"He is not a demon."

"Perhaps not, but he is evil. He comes from the Underworld, Healer, he's the Black Lord's son, I've heard."

While Mirra pondered this startling information, the man slipped away. Once again she had not asked him to release her, but by now she sensed that these men were too scared to defy their leader. She had been told about the Underworld and its ruler, the Black Lord, but her teachers had not mentioned that he had a son.

Chapter 3 Continued