Devastating Hate (30 page)

I'll never get any rest like this!
She opened her eyes.

The fire was flickering, providing a little warmth, but it did give her a certain feeling of safety. Then the wind died down and something rustled in the undergrowth.

There's someone coming! O ye gods!
She grabbed hold of the amulet and called up a spell that could . . . that could make a human laugh. That was all she could think of, her mind had blanked everything else.
Not ideal for warding off a hungry wild animal.

Her magus Jujulo had not been keen on battles and destruction and that was why he'd always appealed to her, but at that moment she would have been very glad to have been taught at least one spell of defense—or attack.

She heard a soft groan. It sounded as if someone was in the bushes, possibly wounded or dying.

Whatever you are, please pass by and spare me.
Törden had talked about beings that pretended to be humans. Humans you felt you had to help. In that way, harmless wanderers could be enticed into the bushes to have their blood sucked from their veins.

Did these creatures walk abroad at full moon?

Famenia fought down the urge to jump up and run.
Fire! I'll scare them off with a firebrand. Or . . . no. How about that spell where you call up a gust of wind
? It was intended just to ruffle someone's hair or make their clothes flap about a bit, but if she concentrated hard and put enough energy into it, it should be enough to topple objects. Or monsters, even.

She concentrated on the formula.

The groan was repeated and she heard shuffling steps through the undergrowth. The noises were much closer now.

She sat up in her bed and pointed her thumb and little finger toward the creature. “For—” She broke off her incantation, unsure of what to do.

The monster was a little girl with a dirty face and filthy clothing. She raised her left arm plaintively and stretched out her hand; the other arm
hung uselessly at her side. She was obviously starving, all skin and bones, and her hair was matted. This was an image fit to melt the stoniest of hearts.

“Help me!” whispered the girl, sobbing bitterly. “Please!” She staggered closer, fighting her way through the overhanging branches. The twigs broke under her grip and the girl tumbled down by the fire with a scream, then fell motionless.

You must help her!
But Famenia remembered Törden's story about the bloodsuckers who liked to pretend they were humans in distress.

“Hey, you!” Famenia pushed the girl with the toe of her boot. The little one sobbed again and begged for mercy. “Who are you? What has happened to you?”

The girl did not move and remained on the ground with her face buried in the dead leaves. “Please . . .”

Famenia looked around, but there was no one else to see. She decided to risk it.

With one hand quickly shielded with a spell, she drew a burning log out of the fire to protect herself, and with the tip of her right foot she turned the girl's body over, expecting to catch sight of enormous fangs.

But instead she saw the ravaged face of a young girl whose sunken cheeks and feverish eyes were witness to her having gone through great trials. The girl's eyes met her own. “Please,” came the barely audible plea. “Go to the king . . . my father . . . burgomaster of—” Her eyes rolled up inside her skull.

She's dying!
Famenia put the log down close at hand, knelt next to the young girl and concentrated on a spell that would prevent her spirit from fleeing her body. She put one hand on the girl's solar plexus, keeping her other hand on the amulet, and pronounced the spell. Magic flowed through her and into the girl, whose tortured face started to relax. The broken bone fragments in the girl's arms creaked as they healed; the scratches and cuts on her face and body disappeared or scabbed over. The frantic heartbeats calmed, slowed and grew stronger and her breathing normalized.

That will have to do. I'll need the rest of that energy later.
Famenia released her hands and studied the girl.

The effect of the spell was to send the person into a deep slumber so that, fully rested, they would awake restored to health.

But Famenia was unwilling to wait that long.
What has happened to you?
She shook the girl's shoulder gently.

The girl shrieked and sat up with a start, flailing about her; one frantic hand caught Famenia in the throat and made her cough. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” the girl cried, quite distraught. “Forgive me, by all the gods, forgive me.” She covered her mouth with both hands and noticed that her arm was mended. “What . . . How did you—?” The girl scanned the immediate vicinity: the woods, the campfire. “Where am I?”

“You're safe. You're with me.” Famenia cleared her throat again. “You were feverish and your arm—”

“It was broken!” The girl raised her arm and waggled it. “How—?”

Famenia sat down. “My name is Famenia and I am Jujulo the Jolly's successor. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

“The
magus
Jujulo? You are his famula and . . . It was a magic spell! You've healed my arm with magic!” She crawled over and seized Famenia's hand, covering it with grateful kisses. “The gods have sent you! My father, the others . . . the elves have shut them away in the cavern and—”

“Take it slowly, little one.” Famenia put her arms around the child. “Tell me your name.”

“Ossandra. I am . . . My father is the burgomaster of Milltown, and the elves . . .” The story came tumbling out, although her voice was croaky and weak. “They came to set up camp in our cave in the hill. Up in the quarry, hidden from view and from the evil that's rampaging through Girdlegard. That's what they told us. But they demanded so much from us all, and then they insisted on taking my friends . . . on taking all the children. They wouldn't let them go—” She drew a rasping breath. “Help me! You can help me with your magic and your spells, can't you? Drive the elves out from our town and do something bad to the terrible Pointy-Ears!”

Famenia stared at Ossandra. “Are you sure they are really elves? Could they be other creatures who look similar?”

“What . . . How do you mean?”

“Tell me about their eyes: do they go black in the sunshine?”

Ossandra thought for a second then nodded. “I . . . yes. Yes! I thought I was imagining it, but their leader, a female . . . Yes, I saw her eyes go black.”

“What is she called?”

“Horgàta. She is very beautiful, but cruel.” Ossandra put a grubby finger to her own mouth. “When she laughs, that's the worst. I'm scared of her. We all are.”

Famenia had a horrible feeling she knew what kind of creatures were responsible for this. “How many are in the cave now?”

“About 5,000. And they all have black horses with red eyes and—” Ossandra started sobbing again. “Once we were trapped, she told us they would do awful things to us if we betrayed them. They're not really elves, are they? Elves would never do that! Elves are creatures of light.” She dissolved into tears, clinging to Famenia.

“I'll see what I can do to save your friends.” Famenia stroked the young girl's forehead.

But in truth she had no idea who might challenge an army of 5,000 älfar.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard) far to the south east of the Gray Mountains,

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

late autumn.

Carmondai strolled through Sonnenhag wearing his warmest clothes, notebooks and pen in hand. The town had changed since his forces had captured it.

The houses had, for the most part, been removed and the foundations demolished and carted away by slaves. Caphalor had wanted what was left of the town walls strengthened, and the barbarians were working to reinforce the ramparts. Sonnenhag would become a secure base for the älfar. It already had a new name: Kòraidàdsôn.

Carmondai paused where there were still a few barbarian homes scheduled for demolition. The slaves were being made to work in cruelly cold conditions. The women and children had already been sent away to the Gray Mountains and the menfolk had been told their families were hostages to ensure their own good behavior. That kept them docile.
They will be dropping dead of cold and exhaustion soon.

Since the conquest of the town, the älfar had also made prisoners of several travelers and traders who had tried to travel through Sonnenhag, unaware of what had happened. They took the place of any slaves that keeled over.

Carmondai opened his folder and looked at his preparatory sketches for a big mural.
It will have to be at least ten paces long and eight high. At least! Otherwise it won't have the desired effect.

A group of armored cavalry soldiers had created a grove of bones by taking óarco cadavers and opening them up to retrieve the skeletons. They had boiled some of the bones in huge troughs to produce glue and had carved the rest to look like branches, twigs and trunks. All of this had been joined together to make a forest circling the newly renamed town: a forest of bones of utter perfection—it was a magnificent work of art. Black beech, blood pines and arrow thorn bushes—many of Dsôn's plants—had been replicated, with the leaves formed from the tanned and dried skin of the óarcos. Óarco teeth provided the thorns. The carved branches shimmered dull white. Carmondai had never seen anything like it, it really was unique.

I think I'll take a little walk through the grove later. It's exquisite.

Carmondai sat down on a low wall and did some sketches of the laboring barbarians. He was not of a mind to stay in Kòraidàdsôn much longer because he wanted to find out where the heroes had gone.

It was the fate of the blinded Arviû that concerned him most. And he had heard no word of Morana, Virssagòn or Horgàta since they had been sent out on the Inextinguishables' missions. He needed to include their deeds and experiences in his epic. This meant he would be riding out soon and thus would stop training the troops.
It's probably better that way. After all, I'm an artist and a poet and that's the way I'd like it to stay.

His quarters were with the nostàroi in the citadel, which had received a decorative overhaul to bring it more in line with älfar tastes, but Sinthoras and Caphalor would soon be returning to the main army so that they could attack Gwandalur before winter set in.

Those left behind will thank us.
Roughly 900 älfar would remain in the citadel to hold the fort, while the forges in the town would produce new armor to replace what was lost when they took up the elves' battledress. But, until that was ready in sufficient quantities, they would have to make do with what they had, its metal blackened and the elf runes obliterated.

Shouts at the gate made Carmondai turn his head.
So, we have visitors!

An impressive horde of óarcos entered the town on heavy workhorses painted green and black. They held tattered óarco banners aloft and the procession was accompanied with kettledrum thunder and ear-shattering trombone blasts.

The barbarian workers stopped and either stood glowering at the beasts, or ran to hide.

Carmondai recognized Toboribar's insignia on the banners; he was the undisputed óarco leader.
He has probably come for negotiations.
He closed his folder quickly and ran over to the citadel, where the column of óarcos were pushing their way through the doors.

I don't want to miss this!
Carmondai hurried up the steps, slipped past the green-skinned beasts and headed in the general direction of
Toboribar's angry shouts. They were being held up by älfar guards at the doors of the hall and the óarco prince was going berserk, throwing furniture around and hurling objects at the walls; he was certainly giving vent to his displeasure.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, Carmondai slipped from the hall through a side door, but stayed at the back. Soon, the furious Toboribar burst through and began haranguing the two armored nostàroi and some of their bodyguards.
Does he suspect that we tricked him?

The óarco's fists were clenched at his side and his huge biceps flexed beneath ruddy gray skin. He was clearly having a hard time controlling his temper, but he took a deep breath before thundering: “You damnable pointy-eared Black-Eyes! You have wiped out my army and blamed others for your treachery!”

“Ah, Toboribar,” Sinthoras said warmly, as if greeting an old friend. “We have not seen you for ages. I thought you and your óarcos had gone—absent without leave, I might add—to carry out your own private incursion.” His smile was false. “It doesn't seem to have gone too well for your army. I assure you that your loss is my own, because we had a sound alliance, but as you see by our bone grove, we have found a use for your fallen. So your dead soldiers have served a purpose, after all.”

“You slaughtered 10,000 Kraggash! You ambushed them while disguised as elves!” Toboribar roared, hands dangerously close to the handles of his weapons. “It is an outrage! And you've been using their corpses for—” Words failed him. “We had a pact!”

“But you did not keep to it,” Caphalor broke in, his quiet voice all the more effective after the óarco's roaring. “So it's no good coming to us and complaining—”

Toboribar stamped his metal-soled boot down on the floorboards. “I was promised the south, and I wanted to secure it.”

“You will be given the south
after
we have subjugated Tark Draan. We can only win if our orders are followed to the letter—as your warriors had to learn to their cost.”

He's not going to let that go
, thought Carmondai, taking notes.

“Nonsense!” yelled the óarco. “My army was on the point of victory when yours ambushed them from behind. Now we have suffered huge
losses and the survivors are badly injured!” He snorted angrily. “I absolutely demand that you have the hideous forest outside taken down! You have desecrated the bones of my Kraggash. I want a proper burial for them.”

Sinthoras marched up to him, standing firm. “You countermanded our express instructions. Tell me, óarco princeling, how you would handle your own mutinous troops? Shower them with riches and rewards? Praise them to the heavens and give them medals?”

“No, of course not—”

“So why do you think we should put up with it?” said Sinthoras. “Insubordination cannot be tolerated! The Ishím Voróo barbarians who think they can head home whenever they feel like it will be getting the same treatment as the blockhead trolls who have suddenly discovered a deep attachment to the Eastern Mountains. This is war, not a day trip.”

Carmondai watched to see how the óarco would react.
Will he lunge at the two commanders, or will he obey them?

Toboribar stood firm under Sinthoras's challenging gaze. “Then it is true.” His tiny yellow eyes glittered with danger. “You did attack my Kraggash, älf. It would have sufficed to give me a warning. There was no need to kill them.”

“That
was
your warning.” Sinthoras spoke in velvety tones. “The punishment will be much harsher should mutiny occur again.” He pointed to the door. “Return to your people and explain to them that 10,000 had to perish because of your own greed and stupidity. I'm sure they'll understand.”

The óarco prince's biceps flexed again and a ferocious roar issued from his throat.

Sinthoras looked at him with disdain. “You know, it wouldn't take me long to designate a successor for you, and your bones will have pride of place at the top of the tallest tree in the bone grove.”

Carmondai completed his rough sketch of the furious óarco—his tusks plated in gold. He was truly a terrifying figure, but he did not seem to intimidate the nostàroi at all.
I can't think of anything that would frighten Caphalor, judging by the way he saw off the demon that time.

“I won't do you that favor,” growled Toboribar. “You'll be begging my forgiveness soon enough.” He stomped out, crushing imaginary älfar at each step. He brushed past Carmondai, ignoring him completely.

“Ah, our artist!” Sinthoras said warmly. “I hope you enjoyed my performance?” He came over with Caphalor at his heels. “That's the only way to deal with these beasts.”

Sinthoras was in dazzling good humor, but Caphalor looked displeased. His friend's return had not improved things. Carmondai did not bother to contradict Sinthoras. “If you say so,” he responded. “I'm just grateful you did not tell him it was me in command when his beasts were massacred.” He lifted his folder and pen. “My favored weapons might not have been appropriate.”

Sinthoras laughed heartily, but Caphalor's laughter sounded distinctly hollow.

Carmondai grinned and was about to think up another witticism when an älf accompanied by ten armed officers and wearing the robes of an envoy to the Inextinguishables appeared at the door.
Since when does the voice of our rulers need armed reinforcement?

“What an honor!” said Sinthoras in his inimitably condescending manner. “Welcome. Word has quickly spread about our whereabouts, I see.”

“Indeed it has.” The gray-haired älf bowed. “Congratulations on the capture of the fortress. Honored nostàroi, my name is Verànor and I bring tidings from the Inextinguishables that concern only yourselves.”

Caphalor dismissed his guards, but asked Carmondai to stay. No one objected.

Verànor took the Inextinguishables' seal out from under his cloak and showed it to the nostàroi to substantiate his credentials. The words he spoke had the status of the rulers' own voices and were to be obeyed as if Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste were standing directly in front of them. “Listen and obey: I must insist that you, Sinthoras, accompany me back to Dsôn Faïmon.”

But he's just come from there.
Carmondai had to bite his lip to stop himself laughing.
At least this time it'll be official and I won't have to pretend I'm him. Thank you, Samusin!

“For what reason? I've got a war to fight. I'm needed here,” Sinthoras countered frostily. “I would think it could wait.”

Caphalor lost control of his features for a short moment. It was not clear to Carmondai whether this was due to Sinthoras's defiance, or his contemptible arrogance.

“It's only
you
I need to bring, not both nostàroi,” Verànor said firmly. “You and two-thirds of the älfar troops you have here.”

“I agree a respectable escort is demanded by my status, but the number you cite seems a little exaggerated,” Sinthoras replied. “Surely your ten guards—”

“The Inextinguishables need the soldiers for the defense of Dsôn Faïmon,” Verànor interrupted. “The dorón ashont challenge our borders and the defense moat is weakened. The threat they pose has to be eradicated. We need more warriors.”

Carmondai was horrified. “
The
dorón ashont?”
This must all go in my epic! How am I going to cover it all?

Verànor nodded. “They have returned. It is worse than the first time they came.”

“That is certainly not good news,” Caphalor said. “But surely our homeland has enough forces to defend it? We need to keep as many troops as possible here to destroy the elves. We want to conquer more of their terrain before the onset of winter—”

“The Inextinguishables have decided that there are sufficient allied forces with you here in Tark Draan for the purposes of achieving the agreed objectives.” Verànor was inflexible. He showed the Inextinguishables' seal once more to emphasize that any haggling about troop numbers was out of the question. “It is not important who wipes out the elves. If they are destroyed by the crudest of our allies then the enemy's disgrace is all the greater. The security and safety of Dsôn Faïmon takes precedence. The dorón ashont will be defeated by the spring, then your forces can return to you.” Carmondai thought of the thousands of óarcos slain in the Kòraidàdsôn siege.
If this news had filtered through a little earlier, they'd all still be alive.

“I understand. I shall lead our warriors against the dorón ashont and save Dsôn.” Sinthoras was reconciled. “And Caphalor will hold the conquered territory and work on the plan of attack for the spring.”

He gets to be Savior of Dsôn Faïmon
and
Destroyer of the Elves—you can't ask for more
, thought Carmondai.
He'll be happy enough with that.

But Verànor shook his head. “No, Sinthoras. You have to stand before an inquiry. Accusations of murder and incitement to murder have been laid against you. Aïsolon will be leading the troops against the dorón ashont.”