Free Demon Lord by T C Southwell Page B

liquid, which he rubbed onto his chest.
After a moment, an odd sensation flooded Mirra, as if she was
floating out of her chair. She gripped the arms, sickened by its
evil, and sensed that the horror she had just experienced was
nothing compared to what was still to come. She stared at him,
biting her lip in trepidation. Bane raised his arms, and the
shadows detached themselves from their nooks and corners and flew
across the room to sink into him.
    Bile rose in her throat as the
room darkened, shadows rushing in from all over, gathered and
absorbed by him. The runes he had cut glowed sullen red, his eyes
turned black, and his hair rose and bristled with the surging
power. Bane staggered under the weight of the foul burden, then
stumbled to the door and vomited. Mirra echoed his reaction,
retching. Dark power filled the room, and Bane came back, looking
sick and drawn, to lift the flask. He poured a few drops into the
cup of his blood and drank it.
    Again the power surged, and she
retched. The room had grown icy, and the floor seemed to give off
black light. The walls and ceiling warped in her vision, and her
mind cringed from the maddening illusions even as screams flayed
her throat. Bane stood at the centre of a dark storm, absorbing it.
Mirra wept for him, crying out with the pounding agony that lanced
through her. Darkness crawled over his skin like a disease. It
soaked into him, flowing through him with nauseating horror. The
power swirled about the room, drawn to Bane in streams of shadow.
He lowered his arms, frowning, and the shadows swirled around him,
no longer absorbed. His hands clenched, then opened, and cords
stood out on his neck with the effort of controlling the magic. He
relaxed, the strain fading from his expression, and his shoulders
slumped.
    The room cleared, and normality
returned with the sunlight that streamed in through the windows as
the shadows melted away. Mirra sat slumped, weak and drained, her
cheeks wet with tears.
    Bane flopped into a chair and
ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Trickles of
perspiration washed the foul potions from his chest. The runes were
stark against his skin, and his eyes burnt black in a haggard
visage. He stared at her, breathing as if he had just run a hard
race. Mirra looked down, receiving a surprise. The chair had
sprouted shoots whose tiny leaves unfurled in the sun. Her healing
power had restored the wood to life, so powerful had it been at the
height of Bane's suffering.
    Bane noticed the chair, and his
voice was harsh. "You bring life, as I bring death. We are
opposites. But death has more power than life; always remember
that. It is nice to share my little ceremony, and interesting that
my power is won through pain, while yours is just there, flowing
out of you. I shall enjoy draining it from you and reducing you to
an empty shell, then see what is left."
    Bane rose to his feet and
shouted for Mord. The troll appeared with a cup, which Bane drained
before throwing it down with a clatter and stalking into another
room, evidently to lie down and recuperate. Mirra watched Mord put
away the pots, then he released her, bound her arms and tied her
leash to a table leg.
    For two days, Mord kept an eye
on her, but at first refused to untie her. The corpses swelled and
began to stink. At night, blood-chilling screams echoed through the
town as the dark creatures hunted. Mirra lay in the darkness and
prayed as feet shuffled past and bat wings rustled over the roof.
She wondered if the dark creatures hunted the conquered town's
hapless citizens, or Bane's men who wandered away from the safety
of the houses. Yet houses, she discovered, provided no
sanctuary.
    One night, the shuffle of padded
feet and the soft click of claws woke her from an uneasy doze. She
froze, hardly daring to breathe, a scream clogged in her throat.
Against the dark backdrop, she made out the blacker form of a dark
creature as it slunk between the tables. Its red eyes gleamed
dully, betraying