T. C. Southwell

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CHAPTER TWO (cont)

Son of Darkness

Mirra dug in the little vegetable garden, being careful not to harm any of the fat earthworms that she found there. In two days she had seen no one, which did not surprise her, although she had expected some wounded soldiers and was disappointed that none had come her way. The deer came at her call, but seemed more nervous than usual, staying only long enough to snatch the sweet bread that she gave them before vanishing silently into the woods once more.

The birds answered the call of spring, raising their chicks in scruffy nests and tree holes and filling the woodland with their lilting song. Her only patient had been a starling with a broken wing, a mere moment's work, although still satisfying. The squirrels brought her nuts, and a badger left tender roots outside her door each night, small tokens of their friendship. But for someone who had grown up in a crowded abbey, the peaceful forest was a lonely place.

Mirra looked up at a flash of movement among the trees, hope brightening her eyes. A young hind limped from the woods, her eyes wide and fearful, and Mirra hurried over to her. The deer trembled and panted as she examined her, the animal's pain tingling through her. Mirra gasped when she found the black arrow protruding from the doe's haunch, raising a hand to her mouth in shock. The inflicting of such pain upon an innocent animal horrified her, and she realised that the actual purpose of the shaft had been to kill the hind. She had never heard of such a thing, and since the healers ate no meat, she could not fathom the reason for killing such a beautiful creature.

But there was much about the world that she still had to learn, so she put aside her dismay for now, certain that some logical explanation would be forthcoming in the future. Her healing power flowed, and she pulled the arrow painlessly from the wound, which closed without a scar. The doe nuzzled her, then trotted away, ears twitching. Mirra returned to her digging, humming. She enjoyed helping others, whether human or animal, it filled her with a warm glow.

Suddenly the birds ceased their carolling, and strident warning calls rang out instead, sending a flock of wood pigeons who had been feeding in the glade flapping for the safety of the trees. A squirrel chittered a warning and vanished into its hole in the spreading oak beside the garden. Mirra looked up again as a small, misshapen man emerged from the trees, followed by three others. Black eyes darted in their wizened, nut brown faces, large, hairy ears protruded at right angles to their heads, and bulbous noses hung over slack lipped mouths. Worn clothes, soiled with mud, hung ill fitting on pot bellied bodies, and each carried a small recurve bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.

The four gnomes stopped and stared at her, apparently surprised to encounter a healer in these woods. Mirra stood, rubbing the warm brown earth from her hands and brushing self-consciously at her robe, embarrassed to be found in such a state of disarray.

Hiding her dirty hands behind her back, she smiled. "You are welcome here. Do you require healing?"

One stepped towards her, leering, but was held back by another, who growled, "Let's not act like trolls, Snort."

Eager for some company, she said, "Would you like some tea?"

"Uh, narr, we ain't thirsty." The first gnome shuffled his feet.

"You all look very well."

"Huh? Oh, yah, we are." He sniggered. "But you won't be fer long."

Her smile widened at his ignorance. "Healers do not fall ill."

Mirra studied them, fascinated. Gnomes were rarely seen, for they were a timid, secular people who stayed mostly in their burrows, vast warrens of tunnels usually found in hillsides, where they dwelled in small communities. They were renowned for thieving, mostly sheep or chicken rustling, and hated by farmers, who cursed them, but rarely caught them in the clumsy traps that they set. Gnomes were cunning, if not particularly clever. They usually moved in small groups, and always carried bows and knives. This was a rare and welcome opportunity for her to learn a little about them, and enjoy some company too.

"How may I help you?" she enquired.

The foremost gnome fidgeted and glanced at his friends. "Uh, well, you're coming with us; the boss will want to see you." His friends snickered, nudging each other, and one muttered, "That's fer sure."

"Of course." Mirra was delighted, she had never heard of gnomes seeking help from a healer. "Take me there."

To her surprise, they gripped her arms and hustled her into the woods, heading back the way they had come. She wondered if gnomes always sought to aid their guests' locomotion in this way, or whether they thought that she needed help for some reason.

"You are very kind, but I can manage on my own." Receiving no reply, she asked, "Where are you from? I have not seen anyone for two days; it is nice to meet someone at last. Do you live around here?"

The lead gnome grunted. "Not exactly."

"Yuh, we just moved in," another sniggered.

"Good!" Mirra was becoming a little breathless as they hurried her along. "Is your ... er, boss very sick?"

"Sick! Nah, not on yer -"

"Yah, he is." The lead gnome cuffed his companion. "Shurrup, Snort."

Snort whined, and Mirra shot him a sympathetic look, wondering why they should be so confused as to whether or not the boss was sick. Surely that was why they had sought her out? Or had they merely stumbled across her in a stroke of good fortune? She concentrated on keeping up with the rather gruelling pace that they set without tripping over roots or being bashed by low branches, which the gnomes did not notice, being only three feet tall.

Soon they reached the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to a rolling meadow that had once been dotted with wild flowers. Now a black sea of men, gnomes, trolls and all manner of dark people covered the trampled grassland from this forest to the next, several leagues away. Mirra estimated that there were several tens of thousands of men, more than she had ever seen gathered in one place. Most rested on the ground, some engaged in cooking or cleaning weapons, others talked, gambled or slept. All seemed to favour a dull brown or black garb, and many wore rusted armour. A low mutter of male voices filled the balmy air, and a haze of blue smoke hung over the scene like morning mist.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed, "This is an army! Ellese told me that there was a war. I am glad you found me, you must have injured men, I suppose?"

The gnome shot her a disbelieving look, his wizened face creased with confusion. They trundled her into the midst of the horde, and shouts of surprise and delight greeted her arrival. The gnomes growled and pushed away those who ventured too close or tried to grab her, jabbing at them with their knives, and a small procession formed in her wake. Mirra was surprised to see every race of dark folk represented, for usually they were reclusive, rarely seen by normal people.

Among them, men swaggered, leering at her, unshaven and dirty, the rank smell of their unwashed bodies filling her nose with its thick musky stench. She fought the urge to hold a hand over her nose and smiled at them, stopping abruptly when she came to man lying on the ground, a bloody bandage around his leg. His pain called out to her, and she slipped from the grip of the gnomes to kneel beside him. At her touch the wound healed, and the man stared at her, not returning her smile, then she was grabbed and trundled away.

They led her into the middle of the camp, a crowd of muttering soldiers following, forming a wide circle around a large leather tent, which had an untrampled area around it. A troll standing at the door ducked inside, reappearing quickly. Considering the huge stature and massive strength of the black haired sub human, she was surprised by his fearful demeanour. The yellow tusks that curved up from his lower jaw pulled his face into a glum expression, but the darting eyes and hunched posture belied his fearsome looks.

"Is this where your sick boss is?" Mirra started forward, but the gnomes held her back.

"Wait!" the leader growled, looking nervous.

Mirra glanced at the crowd behind her. She had already realised that this was not a friendly army, for no healers accompanied them, and the glares that they sent her were distinctly hostile. She raised a hand to fondle the silver necklet, trying to calm her pounding heart by assuring herself that even enemy troops would not harm a healer, for they would need her services as much as any other.

Mirra looked around as a man stepped from the tent, and her heart contracted painfully as her gaze met his, making her gasp. A thick mane of jet black hair framed the face of a demon crossed with an angel. His alabaster skin, which appeared never to have seen the sun, lay tautly over fine, sculptured features. Fine brows angled up sharply above long lashed eyes of blue as vivid as a flame's bright heart. He had a straight, narrow nose that might have been sculpted by an artist striving for perfection in a godly form, his only flaw a slightly thin lipped mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer.

Mirra stared at him. The contrast in his face amazed and fascinated her. The deep widow's peak and slanted brows gave him a demonic, evil look, while his skin and eyes made him resemble a fallen angel. Lines of strain and anger marred his smooth skin, furrows ran between his brows, and his eyes were bloodshot. His glossy raven hair fell in layered wings on either side of his face, as if brushed back by careless fingers. It fell to his broad shoulders, matching the black cloak that hung from them, almost sweeping the ground.

Flame-like patterns of fine gold embroidery decorated the front of his shirt, and leather guards encircled his wrists, studded with silver. Mirra sensed the pain radiating from him, echoed in his tormented eyes, and was surprised when the gnomes scuttled away, apparently afraid of him. The aura of power that surrounded him did not daunt her, healers were trained to be unaffected by such things, since even kings and queens must seek their help at times. His obvious need of her help calmed her fears, and she smiled at him, stepping forward to offer her services in the manner in which she had been trained.

"May the goddess bless you, and her power heal you through me."

His cold eyes never left her face as he ignored her greeting and spoke in a soft, menacing voice. "I doubt that, little girl."

Mirra laughed, and he winced as if the sound hurt his ears. "I am certain that whatever your illness is, I can help you."

"You were not brought here to help me."

Mirra moved closer, which seemed to surprise him, for his brows rose a fraction. "But I can stop your pain."

"Really." His eyes glinted.

Mirra reached up to touch his brow, finding his skin cool and satin smooth beneath her fingers. He regarded her flatly, not objecting to her touch, his eyes filled with cruel anticipation. After a second, she snatched her hand away, rubbing it as she retreated a step, uncertain. Her healing seemed to bounce off him as if a wall blocked her. She sensed a strangeness deep within him, and it confused her. It was like a barrier of power that lived just under his skin, spurning her healing.

His lips twisted into a sneering smile. "Your magic will not work on me, witch, my father made certain of that. I am so glad you could join us today, sport has been hard to come by lately, and I have missed it." He raised his head to address the soldiers behind her. "Take her and bind her!"

As he stepped back, many hands grabbed her and dragged her towards a large, upright rock. She did not struggle, confused and alarmed by this strange turn of events. The tall man strode to the rock, his black cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.

The men brought rough ropes and bound her to the rock, forcing her to stand with her back pressed against it. She looked around for the black clad man, who stood some distance away, watching, and wondered what they were going to do. Surely they would not harm a healer?

He waited until they had finished lashing her to the stone, then walked closer. The men sidled back as he approached, and he stopped before her, his eyes icy with contempt.

"Now you will see what I do with witches."

"I am not a witch, I am a healer."

"Do not talk back, witch."

The man pulled a thin, black bladed knife from his belt, and she watched him with vague disquiet. He fingered the blade for a moment, his eyes raking her as if pondering his next move; then he raised the knife and drew it down her cheek in a swift motion. Mirra gasped in surprise at this unexpected action. Instantly the cut healed, not a drop of blood escaping. His eyes narrowed, and he peered at her cheek, then at the knife. He cut her again, deeper, with the same result. Frowning, he turned and held out a hand to the men behind him, who shrank from it.

"Give me a brand."

A glowing brand was yanked from the nearest fire and thrust into his hand, and he swung back to her. Slowly, he touched the burning wood to her cheek. Mirra did not flinch, for her power healed the burn and blocked the pain completely. The smell of charring flesh sickened her, but she knew from childhood escapades that any burn or injury that she received healed so fast that she did not even feel it. She failed to understand why he was doing this, but it caused her no pain, so she made no objection. Perhaps he was assuring himself that she really was a healer. He removed the brand and stared at her smooth golden cheek, scowling.

"So, the little witch has real magic."

"I am a healer."

"Silence!" His hand lashed out, slapping her hard across the cheek, snapping her head around. The red mark faded instantly, as did the sting of the blow. She gazed at him in confusion. He seemed angry, but what had she done? A tinge of colour flushed his pale skin, and his brows almost met over his nose. His eyes darkened, their bright blue washed away by inky black. Mirra gasped in amazement as he raised his hands, sensing a surge of some strange, evil power. Black flames arced from his fingers like ribbons of shadow, bridging the gap between them and crawling over her skin with loathsome fingers of fire. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed the sour sting of bile and shifted uneasily as the dark magic licked over her, biting her lip to stifle the overwhelming urge to vomit. Apart from the terrible nausea, the fire did not harm her, although it tingled where it touched.

He gave a snarl and unleashed a lash of fire that drove her back against the rock, causing her golden healing to flare in response. His power washed over her, bathing the rock behind her, making the cowering crowd of men and dark people retreat with moans of fear. Mirra swallowed the bile that tried to crawl into her mouth, flinching from the terrible power that he wielded.

Lowering his hands, he let the black fire die. The darkness drained from his eyes as he glared at her.

"What are you?"

Mirra sagged against the rock, relieved that the sickness had vanished with the fire. "A healer."

He swung away, his face thunderous. "I will not waste my power on a puling witch-maid. Make my father happy!" He roared to the crowd of men. "Torture her! We want to hear her scream!" He strode away, his back stiff with fury.

The horde closed in on her, many dirty hands reaching out to hurt her, cutting the ropes that held her and pulling her into their midst. She gasped as knives slashed her robe to ribbons, slicing her flesh in bloodless cuts that closed without a trace. Clubs smashed her fingers and snapped the slender bones of her arms and legs. She was beaten, pummelled, thrown down and stomped on, spat on, urinated on. They rolled her in the dirt, broke her ribs with kicks, pierced her eyes with knives, thrust burning brands into her skin. They tore out her hair in tufts, slashed it off with knives, forced excrement into her mouth, and stabbed swords through her gut. There was no pain, and the injuries healed instantly, the extent of them causing her skin to glow with the golden power. Through it all she made no sound except the occasional grunt when they knocked the wind out of her.

When they withdrew, she was smeared with muck, her hair gone, but for tattered clumps, her robe in rags, and a bad taste in her mouth. She looked up at them with sad reproach, two tears escaping to trickle down her cheeks as she fingered the filthy ruin of her hair. The gnomes who had captured her grabbed her and dragged her to her feet, pushing and pulling her to the big leather tent. There they stopped, and the troll ducked inside for a moment. Mirra pulled together the tattered remnants of her robe in a rather vain attempt at modesty, since there was hardly enough cloth left to cover her.

The black clad man emerged, his face grim, and surveyed her. Pain radiated from him, and she longed to heal him.

"Is this the best you could do?" he roared at the gnomes, who scuttled away, stopping at a safe distance. "I want her dead! Are you so useless that you cannot kill a simpering maiden? All you have done is dirty her and cut her hair!" He raised a hand to his brow, wincing, then turned to the troll who cowered beside the door. "Where is my damned potion?"

The troll held out the cup that he had been clutching, and the man snatched it from him with an angry growl.

"Do not drink that!" Mirra cried.

He glared at her, his lip curling. "Why not?"

"It is bad for you!"

For a moment he stared at her in undisguised amazement. "Why should you care?"

"Of course I care, I am a healer."

"You are mad." He tossed back the liquid, throwing the cup aside. "Tie her up!" He ordered the gnomes. "I see that I will have to deal with her myself. Make sure the ropes are rough and tight, I want her to suffer!" His icy gaze raked her. "Perhaps she will afford better entertainment than I thought, since she does not die so easily."

The gnomes dragged her to the edge of the forest and bound her to a tree, the ropes cutting into her skin. When they left her, she sagged against her bonds, wondering what was in store for her next. The situation made no sense, she had done nothing to earn the wrath of the strange, handsome man, yet he wanted her dead.

Chapter Three