Devastating Hate

Markus Heitz was born in 1971; he studied history and German language and literature. His debut novel,
Schatten über Ulldart
(the first in a series of epic fantasy novels), won the Deutscher Phantastik Preis (German Fantasy Award) in 2003. His bestselling
Dwarves
trilogy has earned him a place among Germany's most successful fantasy authors. He currently lives in Zweibrücken, Germany.

Also by Markus Heitz

Righteous Fury

Jo Fletcher Books

An imprint of Quercus

New York • London

© 2011 by Markus Heitz

Map illustration © by Markus Weber

English translation © 2014 by Sheelagh Alabaster

Cover design © hilden_design; Illustration © Alan Lathwell

Originally published in Germany in 2011 by Piper Verlag GmbH

First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016

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e-ISBN 978-1-62365-707-9

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To the world's composers,

living or dead,

classical or modern,

my inspiration

as I write

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,

4371
^st
division of unendingness (5199
^th
solar cycle),

summer.

The air was filled with the sound of hundreds of banners flapping in the breeze; occasionally the cry of a raptor was heard as it flew across the darkening sky.

Awe and reverence determined the mood of the silent multitude of älfar warriors assembled on the high plain.

Surrounding the throng, shattered enemy weapons that had been melted down and twisted creatively into bizarre interlocking structures towered into the air—victory columns to symbolize the downfall of the dwarves. But no regard was currently being paid to these abstract works of art: all eyes were trained on the garlanded platform before them.

A low roll of thunder gave the first indication of an approaching storm. Over in the south, black clouds covered the sky as if ready to halt the advance of an enemy; a warm breeze played around the tips of the älfar army's lances and spears and the rivets on their armor.

Carmondai tied back his long brown hair so that the strengthening wind would not whip it into his face and over his paper, and observed the patiently waiting crowd.
It is as if they had turned into statues.
The silver-clad stick of compressed charcoal in his right hand raced across the open page as he drew without looking down at the notebook. He never needed to correct these preparatory studies; he was accustomed
to making accurate lightning sketches for the large paintings he would complete later.

The blood-red sun sank behind the Gray Mountains, illuminating the finest of the óarco, barbarian, troll, demi-giant and älfar fighting force. They had gathered to acclaim the Heroes who had made their victory at the Stone Gateway possible.

The groundlings—the defenders of Tark Draan—had been eliminated, their bones serving as raw material for sculptures, musical instruments and decorative souvenirs, wagonloads of which would be finding their way back to the homeland as evidence of the win.

This is only the beginning of an endless river. Our swords will take Tark Draan's last drops of lifeblood.
In the margin, Carmondai made a note of the color combinations and appropriate blood types he had in mind for his mural. Groundling life-juice was darker and more mystical than others, he had found, and not easy to work with, but it did give the work a level of integrity not usually achieved through the use of other creatures' blood: minute traces of minerals in the dwarves' blood emphasized the picture's essence through scent, and would intensify the effect of the battle for the discerning spectator.

Carmondai sketched without stopping. He knew the swift lines he was drawing impressed the barbarians who could see his sketches, but this did not satisfy him—any älfar child could do this sort of thing.

He caught sight of the cloud formations as they moved threateningly toward the conquerors.
You shall not stop us.
He took in the gray, white and black as the clouds raced across the sky and then his gaze dropped back to the decorated ceremonial stage and he began to make his way slowly through the ranks of the warriors to study it more closely.

Skillful craftsmen had created the brilliant white base of the podium from split and dried groundling bones; strands from the hair and beards of the defeated soldiers had been used to fasten the bones together. At the rear of the stage, bronze-coated skulls hung from long poles by ropes of braided silver, jangling like bells. Carmondai could hear the sound now that he was closer; the combination of bone and metal produced a strange tone. Their enemies' grimacing features had been transformed into shimmering masks: images of death that would last forever.

In the distance, Carmondai could see standard-bearers beginning to march toward the stage, and suddenly the noble runes of the nostàroi could be seen; blood-red fabric wafting lazily in the breeze. There followed the nostàroi bodyguard in sinister leather armor glittering with engraved tionium plates. The motifs on their helmets signified that each warrior had killed more than one thousand of the enemy.

Carmondai moved away from the stage to get a better view.
Ye gods of infamy, how proud our people are!
His fingers flew, making notes on the figures around him. His skin prickled and the sense of awe sent waves of excitement up his spine.

Suddenly an impatient night-mare's imperious snort broke the quiet and Sinthoras and Caphalor were sighted on their magnificent armored mounts. Caphalor's black stallion Sardaî was taller in stature and more impressive in nature than any other night-mare.

Carmondai registered that he was writing more slowly now. He was deeply affected by the imposing appearance of the nostàroi; their presence swept over the plateau like a spell. The two nostàroi were producing powerful emotions from the assembled troops: respect, worship and fascination.

Carmondai had to shake himself free from their hypnotic effect. He looked quickly around at the crowd, noticing that all were staring at their leaders' noble features, eager for some slight word that might impart to them a shred of this triumphant brilliance.

The effect could hardly be stronger if it were the Inextinguishables themselves who had arrived.
Carmondai was convinced that every warrior and any creature present would have followed Sinthoras and Caphalor to the ends of the known world.
What power they have!

The leaders, their way lined by standard-bearers and bodyguards, halted at the platform.

Sinthoras and Caphalor dismounted and climbed up to the dais. They wore gold-wrought black ceremonial armor studded with jewels. They removed their helmets, displaying fine facial features and allowing their long hair to move in the wind: blond in the one case, black in the other.

Carmondai had heard tell how different these two nostàroi were, in personality as well as coloring; he had heard that Caphalor tended toward
the views of the Constellations and that Sinthoras supported the Comets. But now, seeing them together, it looked as if they could be brothers.

Sinthoras raised his right hand and addressed the silent throng. “We are standing on the land of Tark Draan! Do you know what this means?”

A single cry thundered from thousands of älfar throats.

“No army could have achieved more!” he proclaimed. “It is
we
who have defeated and annihilated the groundlings, and it is
we
who will bring down and destroy the elves. We will not only eradicate them, but eliminate all they stand for and all they have created. Nothing of theirs shall be allowed to continue. We shall be their
death
.” He lifted his head slightly, the fire of hatred glowing in his eyes. “For the Inextinguishables!”

Again the response came back a thousandfold.

Carmondai's heart beat quickly in his chest, while his pen scurried across the paper.
Every fragment of this event must be recorded for posterity—every fragment! I am witness to our people's greatest victory. I must miss nothing.

“We shall bring death into every last corner of Tark Draan. Kingdoms will fall under our yoke, fortresses will burn to the ground and we shall create such art as has never been seen before. We are the new rulers here!”

Not even the loudest clap of thunder could compete with the älfar warriors' voices and the roars from the other creatures. To Carmondai's mind, the sound had penetrated deep into Tark Draan. He imagined the inhabitants quaking with fear and turning their ugly heads toward the Gray Mountains, aware that their end was nigh.
I must start my new poem this very day.

The nostàroi, like two gods come down in grace to their worshippers, received the adoration and acclaim of the crowds.

Finally Sinthoras raised his arm and the assembled throng fell silent. “The first victory is with us. In the coming moments of unendingness we shall flush out the groundling tunnels to ensure nothing and nobody can attack us from behind. Find their treasure hoards, take what you can from their storehouses and send it all as tribute to Dsôn Faïmon. Caphalor and I will now decide our strategy for delivering the final blow—the exterminating blow—to Tark Draan.”

Caphalor now spoke. “But this evening you shall celebrate what we have achieved so far. Take your ease, drink with your comrades and companions, and then”—he drew his sword and pointed toward the south where the dark clouds glowered—“let us stamp out this elf brood!”

The nostàroi withdrew, mounted up and disappeared over the edge of the plateau, while the älfar and their allies tirelessly called out their leaders' names to ear-splitting applause.

Carmondai had never in all his long life experienced such deep admiration for anyone. It struck him that with commanders such as these the army would be victorious in any campaign, however taxing the fight.

In response to whistles, fanfares and shouted orders, the assembled troops dispersed: älfar in a disciplined fashion, barbarians in a less orderly manner, orcs and miscellaneous creatures in shambling disarray.

Carmondai stayed where he was, taking in the scene.
Tark Draan has nothing to compete with our army. In less than a third of a division of unendingness we shall have achieved our goal.

He sauntered off, watching the river of soldiery streaming into the groundlings' former stronghold. Having left his luggage with one of the gate guards so that he could arrive in good time, he was dressed in light traveling attire and as a result, felt vulnerable and out of place: he looked far too peaceable.

Carmondai reached the top of the plateau and looked out over the camp. Tents were set up across the mountainside, strictly segregating the various warring races from one another. Many unresolved enmities left the allied factions prone to disagreements, and the nostàroi were keen to keep this to a minimum. Each individual commander was responsible for internal discipline within his camp. Much of this enmity was down to the intensely motivating effect of greed, which Carmondai was fascinated by.
That's where the differences lie: the lower orders will die for the sake of gems and riches, while the higher beings kill for their ideals.

He stood watching the óarco horde as they shoved and pushed and punched each other. No surprise that these green-and-black-skinned beasts with their decorated tusks and their stinking fat-coated armor tended to try to bump each other off at the slightest annoyance.

“Ye gods of infamy, would you look at that scum,” he murmured. “They are a disgrace.”

“But we'll be leaving them here, of course,” said an älf-woman at his side. She had come up close on her night-mare, unheard over the whistling wind. “That way we will be permanently free of them in Ishím Voróo.” She smiled at him. “You must be Carmondai?”

He took half a step back to see her better. Her armor told him she belonged to the nostàrois' personal guard. The symbols on the tionium-reinforced leather cuirass showed her to have killed over one thousand enemies, and proclaimed her as the unpartnered daughter of two great warriors.

She looks so young.
Carmondai was usually quite good at guessing the age of other älfar, but her face was hidden by a half visor.
Fifty? Sixty? But how could she have killed so many in that short time?
“Yes, that's me.” He looked at her inquisitively and received a slight nod in return.

“Then I have an invitation for you. The nostàroi have heard that you are with the troops here and they want you to be present at supper. You are to record the event in word and picture so that the Inextinguishables may receive a report drawn up by an inestimable talent.”

Carmondai felt hot and cold shivers run up his spine. At first he was flattered, but then his old resentment reared up: he hated taking orders. It was not only that he considered himself an artist of high repute. If it had been his own idea to take notes and to sketch the occasion he would have considered it an honor to be allowed to do so. But like this . . .

“What's wrong?” The älf-woman was astonished at his hesitation. “Tell me what you have planned that's more important and I'll kill whoever it is you are meeting, then you'll have no difficulty deciding.”

Her remarks amused him. “Why don't they find an ordinary scribe?”