Devastating Hate (49 page)

4372
^nd
division of unendingness (5200
^th
solar cycle),

winter.

“Keep an eye on furnaces number six and seven; the pressure's quite high and we don't want the substance overcooking.”
Too many duties are the enemy of perfection.
Durùston strode like a commander between rows of groundling smelting ovens. Since the älfar victory these furnaces had been serving a very different function.

The boilers were ranged in rows to the right and to the left, and each one had coals glowing white-hot under them, fanned by the huge bellows. Durùston's apprentices and serfs busied themselves throughout the hall by checking the contents simmering in the containers.

“Crew to boiler number four: the elf bones should be ready now. Prepare to drain the vessel.” He looked up at the air vent; the stinking steam was collecting in front of it. “Send a couple of mechanics up to check what's happening with the vent.
We're
practically being broiled alive, let alone the remains of our enemies.”

Everyone in the vicinity broke into laughter.

Durùston wiped his face; drops of sweat splashed onto his thick brown leather apron.
I could do with double the number of boilers and twice as many assistants.

He knew that, back in Dsôn, the population were keen on owning souvenirs collected from the victory over the elves, whether they be bone ornaments, strings of beads or rings. In fact, with the extra raw material the nostàroi kept sending him—barbarians and elves rounded up from the furthest corners of the Golden Plain—he could barely keep up with demand.

Some of the delays were his own fault: he had extremely high standards and was fully aware that each finished piece would impact on his reputation, so he would not sign off a work until satisfied that it could not be improved.

Time to check on the smithy.
Pulling off the leather cap that protected his hair from the sparks, he left the fume-filled hall and went into the smithy next door, where an agitated blond älf awaited him. This newcomer had arrived only a few moments of unendingness before. Durùston knew he was one of Khlotòn's nephews, but could not remember the young älf's name.
It was his uncle's influence that made me accept him, rather than any natural talent.

“I have made a discovery!” the blond älf called excitedly, running off.

Durùston stood still and watched him go. “Can I see it from where I am, or do you expect me to come after you?” He was not in the best of moods. He was intensely dissatisfied with something he was working on. He had everything he needed to create a work of art no one in Dsôn could match—in particular the beautiful captives from the Golden Plain, but today he had no inspiration. Someone brought him a beaker of water and he downed it in one.
What's the fellow's name, for pity's sake?

“Forgive me,” called the blond älf, still beside himself with excitement. He had returned with a small pot in his right hand and a carved bone in the other. The small container held a viscous fluid that looked rather like quicksilver. “Here!”

“I can't see anything worth getting excited about,” Durùston grumbled.

The älf placed the pot down, knelt on the flagstones and spread a layer of the paint on the bone. He blew on it gently and passed it to Durùston, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “It's dry! And it is—”

“Silvery.” Durùston accepted the piece. “So what? I've seen quick-drying paint before . . .” He fell silent. His fingers skimmed the section that had been treated.
Metal?
He flicked it with his fingernail, producing a slight ringing tone. He stared at the elf disbelievingly. “Give me the pot.” When it was handed over he noticed immediately that it was lukewarm to the touch.
It's not molten metal
.

“It hardens at blood heat,” the other explained.

“Tell me your name.”

“Khlotònior. I've done a few experiments with it.”

“You developed this yourself?” Durùston applied some of the substance to another part of the bone he was holding. He watched as it instantly hardened, then he dropped the bone and stamped on it with the heel of his boot. The bone crumbled and turned to powder, but the new layer, thin as a leaf, only changed its shape slightly, flexing and becoming longer and thinner.
That's it! It's just what I've been looking for.

“It was pure chance, I must admit, master.” Khlotònior stepped back respectfully. “I was cleaning out the last of the molds the dwarves had in their stores, to see if we could use them. I heated the contents and poured it all into a collecting vessel. And
that's
what happened.” He indicated the little pot. “I didn't do anything special. I just noticed the luster and the texture. That's why I tried—”

“Yes. All right.” Durùston had gathered that it was not going to be possible to recreate the special qualities of this substance. He took the hardened metal from the floor and placed it in a clean mold, which he put on the glowing coals of the nearest forge. Before long the substance had vaporized.
It cannot be used again. Excellent.
“How much of it is there?”

“A large bucketful, master.” Khlotònior had been watching Durùston's experiment. “I hung it up over the fire so that it would not solidify.” He pointed over to the right.

Durùston nodded. “Well done. From now on you will have the vital task of checking out all the smithies and forges in the Gray Mountains and bringing me any more of this that you find. Find the molds they used, and, if need be, find yourself some groundlings to help you work out what has formed this compound.”

Khlotònior was bold enough to attempt to voice an objection. “But . . . Master Durùston, I wanted to be apprenticed to you so that I could learn how to metallize bone.”

Durùston laughed cruelly. “We do not die. There is plenty of time. Find me more of this marvelous stuff first and then I can still get around to making a sculptor out of you.”

“That won't make my uncle very happy.”

“It is up to an apprentice to carry out all the unpleasant tasks.”
And if you annoy me, I could send your blessed uncle a special sculpture entirely composed of your body parts.
Durùston dismissed him with a gesture.

Khlotònior bowed and withdrew.

I hope I never see him again. The groundlings might capture him. Or kill him and there'd be one less idiot cluttering the place up. Sculptor, indeed!
Durùston went over to where the bucket hung and looked at the fluid silver compound.
It needs a name. I'll call it durùsilver.

And he knew exactly what he was going to use it for.

Hurrying out, he ordered two of his trusted workers to mind the bucket, and set off again to the part of the mountain where he stored his creations.

He crossed one hall after another that were full of finished ornaments made from bone, coats of arms, candlesticks, ceiling pendants and wall panels, all waiting to be transported back to the homeland. Some of them had inlays in gold or some other less precious metal; some were set with gems. The groundlings had certainly hoarded enough of these things and Durùston was putting them to better use—they no longer sat in boxes and chests where no one could see them.

He was proud of what he and his apprentices had already produced, but he was eager to take on the challenge of using a newly discovered material.
It will serve my creative urges well. It shall be a splendid gift for the Inextinguishables.

Durùston reached a door where four heavily armed älfar stood guard. “Bring her to me!” he ordered impatiently.

As the door opened, a thick wall of stale air escaped from the room behind. The commander of the watch disappeared through the door and came back with a female elf. Her curly blond hair framed her face like an aura and her wrists were bound with chains. She looked exhausted. Her only garment was a thin linen vest.

“Shall I come with you?” the guard asked as he handed the Durùston the end of the chain.

“No. I'll manage.” Durùston set off. He could hardly wait to try out his idea. He made the elf walk slightly ahead of him so that he could
keep an eye on her. She could not escape, but he wanted to ensure there were no surprises.

They had hardly crossed the first hall containing the
objets d'art
when her pace slackened. She moaned when she saw the skulls and bones. She seemed to be saying a prayer.

The elves' language is obnoxious.
“I think your friends have done quite well, all things considered. Being made into art is better than dying on the battlefield and then turning into food for the vultures.” He laughed. “They will have pride of place on an älfar cupboard, or the wall of a nice warm kitchen. It's another form of immortality, really, my pretty one.”

The elf turned her head and spat at him. The gobbet landed on his leather apron.

“Aprons are always useful.” Durùston gave her a shove and she stumbled back against a pillar made of bone. He pointed at it. “I needed the bones of one hundred of your kind for that. Do you want the details of how I made it?” He laughed again when he saw the disgusted expression on her face. “You simply don't know how to appreciate art, obviously.”

He pushed her into his chamber and had her washed and scrubbed. Inspecting her flawless body he tried to choose.
Clothed or naked?
He decided on a nude version and led her back to the workshop, where he handed the chain to one of his apprentices.

“Take her to the center of the room,” he instructed, kicking over a low wooden platform for her to stand on.

The two älfar put her in position. Durùston took down the bucket from where it had been hanging over the fire and collected a metal ladle and a paintbrush, which he hooked through the strings on his apron. The special compound was lukewarm.
This will be my first piece of art working on living material. First and last.

He turned around and walked up to the elf. He noted no trace of fear on her face. Her expression was one of revulsion. “I am Durùston, one of the most celebrated artists Dsôn has to offer. With your help, I am now going to be the best,” he told her. He poured some of the compound over her feet and the raised stand; it tinkled as it solidified. Now
the elf-girl was securely anchored to the floor. “You can let go of her now, and remove her chains.”

His workers did as they were bid and then stepped aside.

She seemed not to feel any pain and the process continued without incident, but her face changed as she realized what he was intending to do.

“My first idea was to get you to drink it and after that I was going to remove your flesh, but that would be a waste.” With the ladle in hand he walked behind her and poured a generous portion down her back.

He watched, fascinated, as the liquid flowed over her shoulder blades and down her spine, adapting to every slight contour. The fluid even entered her pores.

She tried to squirm free, but the hardening metal prevented any movement. Pinioned, she groaned, and redoubled her efforts, but the armor casing was too strong. She screamed.

Perfect!
Durùston applied a second ladleful, a third, a fourth, over shoulders, thighs, and rump.

With each application the elf became less of a living being and more of a statue fighting to resist immobility. The viscous substance flowed over her body before quickly hardening. Her struggles gradually ceased.

Durùston brought out his brush and guided the paint to any areas not yet covered, transforming the elf into a silver mannequin. He left her head untreated.

It makes every muscle stand out so clearly. And the tendons!
Beside himself with artistic fervor, he stroked the fine bristles meticulously over the last few blank places on her upper and lower body.
This way I can preserve every intricate detail.

He would not be distracted as he worked on the metamorphosis.

The silver paint in the bucket was running dangerously low.

Durùston stood up and looked her in the eyes. “Are you ready to die?”
This has to work!
He took a deep breath. “You will be my masterpiece,” he whispered. Before she could answer, he poured a ladleful of silver into her mouth, stopping up her throat instantaneously. She gradually suffocated.

I must not miss the opportunity!
Durùston held the brush poised; he watched her eyes intently, waiting for the arrival of death.

There was an alteration in the pupils.

Now!
Durùston brushed the paint over her face at that very instant. “Yes!” he cried excitedly, covering the rest of her countenance with the metal. “I have captured death!” He was about to cover her hair, but the container was practically empty. There was just enough left to anoint the hairline, while her locks stayed blond.

Durùston was pleased with this effect. He was suddenly aware that all his apprentices had entered the studio. He hurled his ladle, brush and the bucket into the furnace, where the remaining durùsilver smoked and vaporized.

“Look at what I've done!” he enthused. “Look at this masterpiece! I shall be sending it to the Inextinguishables as a gift: Veïnsa, the princess of the Golden Plain, at the exact time of her death!” He gave a contented sigh.
No one can ever emulate this effort.
“Watch her carefully for me,” he instructed his most trusted pupils. “Don't let anyone come near.”

He left the workshop utterly exhausted and made his way to his rooms. After a short rest, a bath and some food he would compose an explanatory letter to accompany the gift. That way, when it was sent to the Sibling Rulers, they would be able fully to appreciate the work that had gone into the creation of this statue, which was not, of course, a statue at all.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, Gwandalur,

4372
^nd
division of unendingness (5200
^th
solar cycle),