Devastating Hate (18 page)

That makes one less elf to trouble us.
“Watch out!” he yelled, finishing off two further enemy archers. “Don't let up. Shower them with your arrows. You'll need to kill every single one of them if you want to survive!”

Arviû glanced over at Sinthoras again; the nostàroi was still as a statue.
What, in the name of all the infamous ones is the matter with him? How can he just sit there and watch us die?

It was becoming impossible for Carmondai to remain aloof. Arviû's fleeting expression had been challenging and full of unspoken accusation.
I
am Sinthoras and I shall act like Sinthoras! I don't care about Caphalor's warning.

He gave the order to break up the line and form a semicircle. “Spear-carriers! Dismount and get to the center, shoulder to shoulder,” he called to the bugler who relayed his signal with a blast of notes. “Leave no gaps!”

He sent the mounted close combat soldiers over to the flanks and arranged fire cover, then split up the line of valuable and unprotected archers, hoping to avoid the elves dispatching all of them in one go when their armored troops charged through. He ordered that the riderless night-mares be pushed toward the elves to cause maximum mayhem.
With any luck the animals might be able to break open the elf formation.

Idea after idea shot into Carmondai's mind and he issued a torrent of commands. “The spear-carriers must resist the onslaught. Tell them to ram the ends of their spears deep into the ground and place one foot against the shaft! I want to see the elf cavalry stuck in a forest of spears!” He urged his steed forward while the troops around him seethed in a hectic dance, taking up their new positions. “Archers, start firing! Stop this plague of elves!”

The sound of approaching hooves almost drowned his words. The elf-riders thundered inexorably closer.

200 paces.

The modified älfar formation meant that the elves were caught in crossfire. Because the angle of attack had changed, more of the arrows were hitting home.

Excellent!
The breach in the enemy lines widened at the point the rampaging night-mares were stampeding toward, forcing the elves to scatter.

“Nostàroi!” said one of the bodyguards, indicating the far end of the valley. “They're sending reinforcements!”

The elves' light cavalry was on the move.

“They are afraid of taking too many casualties in the first wave,” muttered Carmondai. “They want to make a second push to seal their victory.”

There were two elves on each of the horses—they had each taken up a member of the infantry division to get them to the front more swiftly. A good 2,000 were held in reserve at the mouth of the valley.

This is going to get tricky.
Carmondai thought quickly about how to counter this new onslaught. If he concentrated firepower on the new wave, he would not be able to continue to reduce the numbers already at the front, and that would have serious consequences for the älfar army.

But there was Caphalor on the left, up on the ridge with the rear-guard soldiers! They had ridden around the valley and worked their way up through difficult terrain in order to attack the elves from the side.

The elf heavy cavalry took more hits from Caphalor's archers—but it was not holding them up.

“Resist at all costs!” shouted Carmondai, readying his troops for the oncoming storm. “Resist or die!”

At that point, the leader of the advancing cavalry charge did the right thing: fifty paces before reaching the first älf he ordered his weakened unit to swerve to the left to avoid the forest of spears.

The elves were now running parallel to and below the ridge.

That's going to make it harder for Caphalor's archers to hit the riders,
Carmondai cursed the elf general.

Disaster was on them: the armored cavalry, long lances lowered, broke through the älfar left flank like a battering ram.

With the sound of crashing metal, smashing spears, the whinnying of horses and night-mares and the screams of injured warriors, the noise level was ear-splitting.

It was the sound of war.

“Keep the . . .” Arviû's joyful voice died away.

His longbow archers had finally been making headway, but then the elves had made a sudden turn and swerved to the left—coming directly at him.

At their speed fifty paces was no distance at all. Before he could give the order to retreat, the elves were charging into their ranks, lances at the ready.

“Short bows! Short bows!” Arviû tossed his precious longbow to one side and grabbed the smaller version, but the elves were too close for him to put enough power behind the shots. He still managed to bring down four of them.

The murderous pressure imposed on the älfar ranks reached Arviû and he was forced backward along with his mount, like a piece of driftwood on a raging torrent. He could not control the direction he was going in, but attempted to keep firing. He took his feet out of the stirrups and pulled his legs clear of the crush.

The elf cavalry was unstoppable and eager to avenge their fallen comrades. They charged deeper and deeper into the left flank and had discarded their lances in favor of swords. With precise strikes from the elves, countless älfar were dispatched into endingness.

“Back in formation! You must—” A heavily armored elf appeared in front of Arviû. In his right hand he carried a shield and in the left the remains of his lance that he was using like a cudgel. The elf's polished, gold-colored breastplate reflected the sunlight and blinded Arviû momentarily.

Arviû leaped from his night-mare and landed on the empty, blood-stained saddle of another. He slipped on the blood and lost his balance, then, as he tried to leap again to avoid the fall, a broken spear shaft hit him full in the face.

Time slowed down for him.

He heard wood shattering, splintering into a thousand tiny pieces. The fragments buried themselves in the flesh of the right-hand side of his face. Needle-prick followed needle-prick. The pain increased immeasurably as the splinters pierced deep into his face.

By all the infamous ones!
His whole body followed the movement of his head, turning likewise. As he sank backward he saw and heard everything with tremendous clarity: the sounds of the raging battle; weapons sliding through flesh or clanging against armor, bones fracturing, leather tearing, the groans of wounded soldiers. He perceived every detail but was totally unable to change what was happening. His mind and his body had parted company.

What is happening to me?

Then he saw the rest of the lance falling toward him. However hard Arviû tried to raise his hands to protect himself, his arms hung useless by his sides.

No!

“Spear-carriers advance! Right flank: use fire-arrows,” yelled Carmondai as he dashed forward. He would have given anything to be able to raise the visor; he was not getting enough air and the heat was unbearable. “Hold them off and kill them all!”

He could not see what the elf reinforcements were up to at all, but he had to deal with the heavy cavalry first, before they could do any further damage.

Carmondai raced over to the left flank like an älf possessed. He heard enthusiastic shouts as he charged past his troops, his sword in the air. “For the Inextinguishables!”

He was in a kind of trance; his identity from his previous life had surfaced and taken control of his actions.

He could smell blood; he urged his night-mare to jump right into the opposing cavalry advance. Dispensing sword blows on all sides he sent half a dozen elves to die under the pounding hooves.

Fire-arrows from his own side whizzed past his head, terrifying the horses with the smoke and flames. The animals shied and backed off, creating havoc with the enemy formation.

Exactly as I intended.
“Down with the elf plague!” Carmondai was tireless in his attack. Enemy blood sprayed his face and entered through the slit in his visor, blinding him momentarily.

When he could see clearly once more, the enemy heavy cavalry was in total disarray and on the retreat.
We have fought them off!
A loud laugh echoed in the helmet.
They'll be riding straight into their own reinforcements! Utter confusion!

And so it happened: the converging elf ranks could not take avoiding action and were falling under a hail of arrows from the intact right flank of älfar. Complete mayhem ensued.

“Nostàroi! Caphalor's mounted troops are finishing off the last of the enemy at the mouth of the valley.” A member of his personal
guard, his armor slashed and bloodied, had ridden up to make this breathless report.

Carmondai very nearly lifted the visor on his helmet to get some air. He would always have done so in the old days after a battle. His arm and shoulder were painful after all the blows he had dealt out with his sword. “Tell the right flank to pursue the enemy. We will grind them down between us!” He had to rest his head against the neck of his night-mare.
I could do with something for my thirst!

“Nostàroi!” He heard an angry cry: “Some of the elves are getting away!”

He turned his mount and looked toward the southwest.

Nearly 1,000 of the heavy cavalry had charged through a narrow breach in the älfar flank, fleeing from the hopeless butchery. They were heading away and out of sight around a curve.

“After them, Nostàroi?”

Carmondai shook his head. “No. We must ensure we beat the main army. Our left flank is too weakened to be able to defeat them. There will be time enough afterward to send fresh troops after them.” He turned back to the battle, where the elves were currently hemmed in on two sides.

Contrary to the old tactics of allowing the opposition a chance to retreat, the älfar now closed up any gap in their own ranks and the elves found themselves caught between two halves of the älfar army.

It is decided.
Carmondai thrust his sword back into its sheath; sweat cascaded down his face. When he thought no one was looking he raised the visor carefully and took a draft from his water bottle. The unaccustomed exertion was getting to him.

He had done enough in the present moment of unendingness to garner praise—for someone else.
To compound the misery, of course, it's me that's got to write it all up.
A joyless laugh escaped his lips.
Sinthoras, you owe me!

Toward sunset, the battle in the little valley was over and done with. The älfar took no prisoners.

Caphalor and Carmondai rode over the enemy corpses, letting their night-mares take gouts of flesh from the cold bodies. Wherever they
appeared among their troops, the names of Caphalor and Sinthoras were cheered.

“You fought well. One more little stone in the mosaic of our heroic portrait,” said Caphalor so quietly that only Carmondai would hear him. “We'll get those who escaped soon enough.”

“I fought brilliantly,” Carmondai corrected him proudly.
I shall have to draw all this! All these impressions are still so fresh and just asking to be recorded!
“Better than Sinthoras would have.”

Caphalor gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. “However, until the very end of unendingness, only you and I will ever know who was responsible for this overwhelming victory.” He held out his hand. “You have won my respect and my admiration in the battle today. This will remain forever and you shall have the benefit, as long as I live.”

Carmondai shook the proffered hand and felt immediately elated.

He enjoyed hearing the enthusiastic soldiers call out to them both; the sweet taste of victory was his to share. And he wanted to continue contributing to their triumphs.
As far as I'm concerned, Sinthoras can stay in Dsôn.

“Nostàroi!” An injured archer came up to them. “Come quickly! It's Arviû.”

Ishim Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,

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

late summer.

Arganaï passed swiftly through the streets of Dsôn with a companion on each side. They had been sent by Demenion to collect the brave young warrior who had brought news of the dorón ashont—and given warning about a surprise attack.

I feel awful.
Arganaï had to stop and lean against a wall to recover. “Give me a moment,” he stuttered, fighting the sickness. He was suffering from the after effects of drinking a concoction the healer had prescribed. His broken thumb had become badly infected: the cost of escape had been amputation of his left arm at the elbow. There would
have been little to gain, they decided, by a flesh exchange, and the operation would have been too risky.

“I'll be all right now.” He spat, the bitter inti-herb taste on his tongue. They'd given him so many doses of it it seemed to Arganaï that his body was leaking the stuff. “Right, let's get on.” He rubbed his brow—it was damp with sweat. His vision clouded and he was not sure where he was.
I am nowhere near recovered yet.

At last they reached the entrance to Demenion's house. His companions handed him over to one of the serfs.

He was led through the premises, but his vision was clouded and he only got vague impressions of the opulence his host lived in.
I should have stayed at home.

A door was opened and bright light shone out, hurting his eyes. An älf spoke a greeting to him.

“Thank you, Demenion, for inviting me,” he replied, deciding it would be better not to risk bowing and maybe throwing up on his host's shoes. “Please excuse my appearance; my wound is still causing a lot of discomfort. The infection has spread and I'm feverish.”

“What are they giving you for it?” Demenion sounded concerned.