Devastating Hate (10 page)

O gods of infamy, can't you stop up their ears and shut their eyes for them? Make them run straight past me!
Arganaï hurled himself into the undergrowth and buried himself in the pile of dead leaves between two fallen trees. He shut his eyes and breathed quietly.

And waited.

And waited . . .

In the middle of the night Arganaï shot up in pain.

I fell asleep!

The moon was shining down on him through the foliage and his right hand was burning like fire. The filthy water and the earth he had rolled in had caused the wound to fester.

But pain means you are still alive.

They didn't find me!
Arganaï pushed his way out, listened hard and made his way cautiously forward, always stopping to listen out . . .
Ye gods of infamy! You have indeed protected me. I shall make offerings to you.

He stood and began to run south again, bathed in the friendly silver light of the stars.

He stopped to eat some berries and roots he found along his way, then took a drink from a small stream. He kept looking behind him, fearing that the huge monsters were on his tracks.

By the evening he had reached the edge of Dsôn.

Not long!
Letting out a sigh of relief he continued his journey, sure that the watch would have seen him coming by now. He imagined the orders being given to get the catapults ready.

Exhausted, Arganaï managed to raise his uninjured hand in a wave . . . then he heard a dull roar behind him.

He dropped to the ground and rolled quickly to the side.

A viciously barbed spear, twice as long as he was tall, flew over his head and embedded itself in the sandy soil. It had a ring at one end with a rope attached for instant retrieval of the weapon.

“Fire!” Arganaï shouted to the fortress garrison on the island, as if his voice had the slightest chance of being heard over the water. He rolled to the right, jumped up and raced across the flat open ground with the very last of his strength. There was no cover. It felt as if he had never run so slowly in his life. “Loose the catapults, for pity's sake!” he cried.

One half of the bridge to Ishím Voróo was let down and a cavalry unit rode out toward him. Hefty thuds told Arganaï that the catapults had fired a first salvo to deter the enemies' attack. His eyesight was now restricted to tunnel vision. He ran toward the warriors riding toward him.

They'll save me!
A cloud of arrows whirred over his head, targeted at the edge of the forest.

Not until Arganaï was safely up behind the rider on one of the stallions did he really believe he had escaped with his life. “I must . . . get to . . . the . . .” His voice failed completely.

“We'll see you are all right. You'll feel better soon,” said the älf who had pulled him to safety. “Who were the Ishím Voróo scum who dared lay hands on you?”

“I saw them!” he groaned. “They have come back!”

“Who has?” asked the solider.

“Dorón . . . ashont . . .” Arganaï whispered, afraid he would not live long enough to deliver the vital message. His people must be warned. The horror redoubled in his mind as he breathed the name. “It's them—the dorón ashont!”

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,

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

late summer.

As dawn broke, Morana made her way to the top of the tower, spying out the land to the east and observing how, as the daystar rose, the plain changed color from dark yellow to gold.

She put her hand slowly into the pocket of her robe and took out a small round flute the size of a child's fist. She had fashioned it out of the
skull of a young óarco; it was one of the first things she had ever made and it served as a charm, bringing her the luck of the north wind.

She placed her lips on the double opening and blew softly into it.
Just so you know that we are here . . .

The wind of the dead was brought to life. It was like the shrill noise of a storm raging over sharp cliffs. There followed a deep resonance just beyond the range of the audible. The reverberations of the double flute were guaranteed to drive away any semblance of clear thought and to put you into a trance—it was a sound to chill the soul.

Morana varied the tones by covering one or other of the skull's holes with her fingers and feeling how the vibrations affected her. Her vision became blurred. Certain warriors found the music heightened their mood to one of tense and furious aggression.

She ended her concert.

Listen to my message, townspeople and elves alike: I send you the wind of the dead. Nothing will save you.
As she put down her flute her eyesight gradually cleared.

She could see the river with the elf settlement on its bank; behind the river, gigantic trees stretched up toward the sky.

They have not bothered with fortifications, only a couple of isolated watchtowers.
Morana could hardly believe her good fortune.
We'll be able to take the whole plain in a matter of a few moments of unendingness.
The nostàroi would be delighted to lead the initial attack on their sworn enemies.

Morana would leave Quarrystone that night and head into the Golden Plain. Perhaps she would even be able to deceive the elves, but she did not really intend to meet any of them. She wanted to take a look around; set foot on enemy territory and sink her fingers into the soil—a symbolic claim for her own folk.

She let her eyes drift over the landscape once more—
wait, what is that?

On the horizon she saw the edges of an immense opening in the earth. She could not be sure of the dimensions, because there was a small forest blocking her view, but she felt sure that it was no ordinary mine. She would have to inspect this from closer up.

She swung herself away from the roof and down the side of the tower to reach the window of her room. She would not leave her room again until the evening, otherwise the color of her eyes might attract suspicion. And she had plenty to do: she had to finish writing up her night's findings.

Quarrystone held no further secrets for her; she had noted every weakness in the town's defenses. In her opinion, a unit of twenty älfar warriors could take the place with ease. The barbarians would wake up the following morning astonished to see älfar banners flying from their castle battlements.
A nice little extra when we conquer the Golden Plain. We can extend the castle and make a proper fortress out of it. It can serve as a bastion against the human armies.

Morana jumped back into her room.

She landed next to the table—and found herself confronting an elderly elf leafing through her notes.

He wore a brown leather upper garment and green breeches tucked into high boots. His gray hair was gathered into a knot at the back of his head. Looking up, he addressed a few words to her, which she could not understand. He seemed friendly at first, but became unsure when he noticed the black in her eyes.

Morana saw that he carried a knife at his side and that a longbow and quiver had been placed against the wall.
He must be out hunting.
“Greetings,” she said, speaking the language of the barbarians and attempting to remain calm so as not to unsettle him—in case he had not already started to suspect.

“May Sitalia be with you,” he responded hesitantly. “Forgive me for entering the room like this. The landlord was proud to relate that an elf was a guest at the Red Goblet, but I was wondering why you had not come a little farther to stay with your own kind.” He gestured to the east. “It would not have taken long and the accommodation would have been so much better.” He put his head on one side, his hand still on her pages of notes. “He thought you were from the south.”

Morana could tell that he was on his guard now. She had no idea what the elves knew about the älfar, but she assumed there must at least be legends about them.
He is old, so he will know the stories. Is he playing with me?

“Yes. I'm here as a messenger from our Queen Emifinia, to visit you here in the north,” she lied. “My name is Morana.”

The elf bowed. “My name is Fatunasíl. That's our town down there by the river. I would be happy to escort you. I expect you would like to meet our princess.”

“It would be an honor. My queen wants to put an end to the estrangement between our peoples. We are in some trouble.” Morana appealed to his sympathy, which would, with any luck, serve to allay possible doubts.

“What has happened?” Fatunasíl had not moved and his hands were still resting on her notes, as if trying to read her words through the fingertips.

“Our harvest failed and we can't feed ourselves on barbarian corn.” She tried a smile. “We had hoped you might have something easier to digest.”

“Of course.” Fatunasíl tapped the sheets of paper. “This script is new to me. It's unlike any handwriting used by local elves. And your eyes are dark. Why?”

“It's a special characteristic. It's to do with the water.” Morana was sure the elf did not believe her and was trying to trap her with his questions.

“That tune I heard just now . . . Was that you playing?”

“Yes. It was to welcome the daystar; it's a traditional tune.”

“I see.” Fatunasíl grew more earnest. “You gave the innkeeper's daughter a strange blessing. He had asked for Sitalia's help, but the symbol on the girl's brow is not that of our goddess.” He frowned. “How do you explain that?”

Morana crossed the room silently and pushed the door shut. “Time is up for the town,” she said. “The residents will give their bones for our works of art and their blood will be used for noble paintings; their tendons will serve as strings for our instruments and their skin as canvasses or parchment. The little girl will survive because
I
have granted her life.” She gave a grim smile. “Sitalia's blessing would not have helped her.”

Fatunasíl said something in his own language, drawing his knife and hurling it in her direction.

Prepared for this attack, Morana was able to step aside and grab a fistful of arrows from the quiver by the wall; she threw them at the elf.

He raised his arm to protect his face. The force behind the thrown arrows could not at this distance pierce his flesh with deadly effect, but was sufficient to graze his face, neck and forearm.

Morana used the confusion to draw her short sword for close combat.

Fatunasíl ducked under her attacking thrust, collecting a kick in the belly and a cut across his back. The light leather shirt offered little protection and the wound gaped wide, revealing the white vertebrae before his red blood gushed over it. He screamed.

Having silenced his voice with a blow to the nape of the neck, Morana then turned over his body as he slumped to the floor at her feet. She placed the tip of her sword at his throat and was pleased to see the blood pour out right and left. She must have found an artery. “How many are there of you?”

Fatunasíl gulped and cursed her in the elf language. “I know what you are,” he stuttered through his pain. “Sitalia sent you to us to bring us back to the path of righteousness. We had not been walking the right path for our people.”

“No. It was the Inextinguishables that sent us to eradicate you,” she replied. “Tell me what that hole is I saw from the tower, over to the east of your land.”

He averted his gaze and turned his face away.

She knew Fatunasíl would not tell her anything about the elves of the Golden Plain. “Congratulations,” she said darkly. “You are probably the first elf in Tark Draan to die by our hands. I shall ensure your name goes down in history. Your death is named Morana.” She shoved the blade deep into his throat and then abruptly upward inside his head. Fatunasíl gave not a single death shudder.

How does one of your kind die?
She stared at him in curiosity, noting how his pupils contracted smaller than frogspawn before turning opaque and glassy. Then they widened, replacing the blue as if to make space to allow the soul to escape.

I want to witness that many more times!
She stood up and studied the corpse carefully.
What shall I take as a souvenir?

She could have cut off the head and preserved it in honey, but she did not know what adventures awaited her in Tark Draan. It might be
risky to have an elf head found in her saddlebags.
But hair would be all right.

She cut off his hair with her sword and soaked it in the pool of blood.

“That's a fine reminder,” she said quietly, lifting the red-stained strands to dry in the sunshine.

As if nothing untoward had occurred, Morana sat down at the table to bring her notes up to date, paying no further attention to the corpse.

She spent the rest of the day in her chamber, writing and drawing. She sent the innkeeper away several times when he came up to ask if there was anything she wanted, perhaps concerned about the sudden disappearance of his second elf guest.

Morana could not resist making a sketch of the dead Fatunasíl's face. She recorded his death mask on a separate piece of paper and drew his profile and several close studies of his eyes, concentrating on producing an exact representation.

When the sun had gone down and her own eyes were no longer black, she got her things ready and then poured lamp oil out onto the floor and the dead body, ignited it with a spark and watched the flames begin to dance.

I have killed the first of the elves!
Morana felt elated as she left the room for the tower stairs. She headed out of Quarrystone at a gallop, having paid neither the innkeeper nor the stable boy. She did not want the townspeople to remember their elf visitor fondly.

She looked back over her shoulder.

The top half of the tower was burning, sending flames and smoke out through the dusk. The first fragments of the building were starting to fall away, starting fires on the roofs of nearby buildings. She knew that the barbarians would not be able to fight the blaze in the tower because it would be impossible to reach. They would have to wait until it burned itself out or until it had reached the lower floors where they could try to douse it with buckets of water thrown from neighboring roofs. She turned again and headed east toward the border with the Golden Plain. It struck her with immense pleasure that the town was the first to be set on fire by an älf. Her deeds here had set a development in motion that no one in Tark Draan could stop.