T. C. Southwell

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CHAPTER FOUR (cont)

Fire Demon

The Black Lord visited Bane's dreams again that night, his anger blazing from him in dark waves, tongues of fire lashing out like whips from his form. Blackness, spotted with tiny sparks of red, spun in dizzying patterns around him. Bane's mind reeled from the onslaught of the Black Lord's fury, and he struggled to listen to his father's words.

"You still defy me, Son?" he boomed.

"No, Father, I will kill the girl, I just wish to experiment with her first. Already I have found how to make her suffer, and her pain brings me joy. Mealle told you?"

The Black Lord nodded, sparks hissing from him. The spinning blackness cooled to grey. "Yes. Find another healer to play with, Bane, kill her now."

"Very well, I will as soon as I have a replacement."

The Black Lord seemed to swell with rage, but controlled himself. "Good, there is an abbey fifty miles from you, go there tomorrow."

"Yes, Father."

The next day the Demon Lord rode ahead on the dragon, leading sullen, footsore troops. No one knew where they were going, they just followed Bane. He set a fast pace, and by mid afternoon, Mirra was bone tired, hardly able to walk. Benton helped her, an arm around her slender waist, but still she stumbled, stubbing her toes on roots and stones. As the horde rounded the edge of a large forest, a ripple of excitement went through them, rousing her from her stupor. She looked at Benton, who could see over the heads of those in front, which she could not. He paled and shot her a guilty look.

"It's an abbey, Healer, I'm sorry."

She patted the hand that held her. "It is all right, healers do not suffer, and they go to a better place."

The sorrow that tore through her belied her words, for it was her own abbey, she recognised the countryside now. Benton's next words made her cold with dread.

"But he knows how to make them suffer, we told him."

Mirra stumbled, her knees going weak, and Benton had to stop and help her. Horror flooded her, and she began to weep. Benton picked her up and carried her, his expression grim. As they drew closer, Mirra caught her first glimpse of the abbey, dreading the pain that the healers would soon endure. The grey and white building nestled in a small green valley, surrounded by flowering trees and shrubs, the fountain in front twinkling in the sun. There was no sign of any healers, but the vegetable garden was at the back, out of sight, and the shrubs in front rarely needed tending.

Benton stopped, putting her down. "I won't take you any closer, Healer; perhaps he'll spare you that."

As the dark horde poured through the manicured gardens and entered the open door of the chapel, Mirra wondered what her sisters would be doing when they were attacked. Praying to the Lady? Had they seen the approaching army? Would they still be weeding and cleaning, cooking and sewing? Or were they prepared, assembled in the chapel, awaiting death? One thing they would not expect, and that was to suffer. She had betrayed them.

Mord ran up and glared at Benton. "What are you playing at, soldier, the Demon Lord wants the girl with him."

Mirra was surprised by the troll's deep, commanding voice and excellent human speech, for it was the first time that she had heard him speak. When Bane was not around, the troll no longer cowered, but became more true to his trollish nature, gruff and domineering. Benton stepped aside as Mord dragged Mirra to her feet, forcing her to stumble after him. She tried to prepare herself for the ordeal, steeling herself for the coming pain. The chapel doorway loomed strangely dark, unlit by the candles that always brightened the goddess' houses on dull days like today. Bane's men wandered around the dim interior, exiting through the rear door into the inner courtyard.

Bane stood at the altar, the huddled form of a healer at his feet. As Mord dragged Mirra to him, he kicked the corpse, his face flushed with rage, eyes like ice.

"Where are they, witch?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment. "They are not here?"

"Only this still warm corpse. I have never heard of healers abandoning an abbey, I have always found them waiting to be slaughtered. Did you tell them that you had betrayed their little secret?"

"No."

"Are they hiding somewhere?"

"No, there is nowhere to hide."

Bane stepped forward and gripped her shoulders, ignoring Mord, who scuttled away. He shook her hard. "You had better not be lying, witch."

"I am not. I do not know why they have left."

Bane shoved her aside and stepped over the body, following the soldiers out of the chapel. Mord hovered nearby, watching her, and she knelt by the dead healer. Gently she turned the woman over, revealing a familiar face. Balia, the oldest healer at the abbey, a sweet, harmless lady. The wooden handle of a kitchen knife protruded from her breast. Mirra's gaze flew to the altar, and fresh tears stung her eyes.

The altar flame had been blown out, signifying the abandonment of the abbey. Undoubtedly Balia had volunteered to stay until the final moment before performing this last terrible act. As the men had entered the abbey, so the light of its holy fire had been extinguished, removing the Lady's presence and leaving it an empty shell. Then Balia had extinguished her own dim flame, plunging the knife into her heart and flying to the Lady.

Mirra closed the staring eyes, touching her chest in benediction. "Fly swift and safe, Balia, the Lady bless you."

Mirra began to lay out the body, straightening the frail limbs. As she folded the withered hands on Balia's chest, she found something clutched in one of them. Opening the stiff fingers, she discovered a small silken pouch. She unwrapped it, and a glowing golden pearl fell into her palm. As soon as it touched her skin, the power soaked into her, filling her with well being and strength. The pearl vanished, and Mirra bowed her head over the old healer.

"Thank you, Balia, Elder Mother."

The pearl had been left for her, concealed where only she would find it, for Bane was not interested in dead bodies. Ellese had known that Mirra was with him, and that she would lay out Balia's body. They knew! The seeress knew that Bane had discovered the secret of harming healers, and that Mirra desperately needed the power that she could no longer get from the sun. Since the day that Bane had found her basking, he had made sure that the weather stayed overcast.

That was why they had left, and desecrated the chapel, extinguishing the eternal flame. That was why Balia had committed suicide, a sin, so that Mirra would not be made to suffer. Silently she prayed to the Lady to forgive her. No doubt they carried the white flame of the Lady with them, and one day would set it again in an abbey. Mirra smiled at this small triumph. How wise the Elder Mother was. Alerted by soft footfalls, she looked up to find Bane looming over her, his face livid with rage.

"They are gone, all of them. You warned them, witch, I know you did."

Mirra opened her mouth to protest, but Bane lashed out, smashing her backwards, sending her sprawling on the smooth white floor. Her broken jaw healed as she fell. Bane stalked after her and kicked her, breaking two ribs, which knitted in a warm flash of golden power. She lay and watched him approach, making no attempt to rise or evade him. He kicked her again, breaking her arm, but by the time she stopped sliding along the floor, it had healed. The power within her, aroused by her injuries, coursed through her body in a warm glow, bringing a flush to her cheeks and sparkle to her eyes. Her skin seemed to glimmer with it, the radiance of her magic shining through her skin in a pale nimbus.

Bane stood over her, his nostrils flared, eyes blazing with vivid blue fire. He tore his gaze from her and addressed one of his captains, who stood in the shadows of the chapel.

"This place has a cesspit, does it not?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Put her in it, while we raze this witch's nest to the ground."

Bane strode away as the captain pulled Mirra to her feet and led her to the ablution block at the back of the abbey. There, his soldiers pried open the cesspit, gagging and drawing back at the fetor that arose, then threw her in, closing the lid. Mirra held her breath as the stinking muck engulfed her, finding the slippery floor and standing. She wiped the filth from her face, but at the first inhalation of the terrible stench, her stomach rebelled, and she struggled not to vomit. When her sense of smell had adjusted sufficiently for her to stop retching, she waded to a wall and leant against it. Pitch darkness surrounded her, cold and clammy, the silence broken only by the squeaking of rats and the faraway sounds of destruction.

It seemed like two days that she spent in the cesspit, but it might have been only a day and a night. Several times she dozed off, waking as the slime closed over her face. The muck was hip deep, forcing her to stand. Unknown crawling things wriggled over her skin and invaded her clothes under the muck, making her squirm and shiver. Hot tears leaked from her eyes as she listened to the destruction of the abbey outside.

Rats ran along ridges in the walls, or clung to the rough bricks. She healed two who were sick, and the others kept her company. They offered to gnaw a hole in the wooden cover so that she would have fresh air, but she refused, hoping that she would not be there long enough to need it. The muck dried to a hard crust on her face and arms, and the darkness closed in on her like a solid blanket, making it hard to breathe at times. She prayed to the Lady for strength, clinging to the bastion of her unshakeable faith to see her through the ordeal.

At last the cover was removed, and Mord supervised as Benton and two gnomes hauled her out. Armed with soap, they took her straight to the fountain and scrubbed her until her skin glowed pink, throwing away the old robe and coat. While they were busy, Mirra gazed around at the ruins of the abbey. Only walls remained of the once gracious buildings, the charred remnants of the roof timbers lying in the rubble. Stained glass windows lay shattered on the ground; statues and paintings were smashed and burnt. The flower garden had been trampled to mud and ashes, the fruit trees cut down.

The men who washed her grew still, and she looked up at Bane, who stood staring dispassionately at her from a few feet away.

"Did you enjoy your wallow in your sisters' dung?"

"No."

"Good. If they know what I am doing, then they will now know what happens to you if they run."

Mirra gazed at him sadly. "It will not stop them."

"Then you know what happens to you if you tell them."

"I did not tell them."

He shrugged. "I do not really care. You see, I agreed to kill you if I found another healer to torment, so now, you continue to live, and suffer, until I find one."

Benton helped her out of the water and wrapped her in a white healer's robe looted from the abbey. Bane strode away, and Benton led her to his campfire, where he gave her food and water. While she ate, he talked.

"He's found another ward, had to scry for it, Mord said, but we move out tomorrow. It's on some island, so we have to get a ship. Only a few of us will be going, but I'll try and come, to take care of you. The rest of the army will be left behind, to wait for his return. It's a fair step, some three days march to the coast."

Mirra smiled at him. "I will be all right."

Benton's craggy face filled with regret. "He shouldn't have done that to you, it must have been awful."

"Wet and smelly, that is all."

"You're amazing, Healer."

She sighed. "Just tired."

Benton nodded, and Mirra stretched out by the fire, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Benton woke her as dusk sent long shadows to swallow the land, and Mord waited to take her to Bane's tent. She rose and followed him, finding Bane sitting on his bed when Mord pushed her inside. He turned glacial eyes upon her as she settled on the floor, but Mirra ignored his freezing stare and fell asleep again.

Chapter Five