Devastating Hate (50 page)

winter.

Virssagòn did not sleep that night. He went back to the room with the sleeping elves and haunted their chamber like a living ghost, torturing them with cruel dreams and ruining their sleep. He smiled as he watched them writhe to and fro in their beds, giving out frightened moans.

After a swift search of the rest of the level, he had discovered that this was the only occupied room. The other rooms were empty, but the dragon cells all had scaly occupants.

The two elves are probably on guard duty
. If Virssagòn had read the situation correctly, they would be the first to fly out against the barbarian army when it appeared and he did not want to miss seeing that.

As the first rays of sunlight came through the small windows, there came the sound of a gong, followed by an alarm call.

Aha. My barbarians are on their way.
Virssagòn quickly left the room and concealed himself near the dragon enclosure to observe the riders saddling their mount.

It was not long before the two elves came running in wrapped in furs with their armor fastened over the top. They wore thick leather headgear topped with helmets secured by chinstraps.

They handled levers and pulleys swiftly in an automatic routine: the saddle was lowered and it clicked into place on the iron framework on the dragon's back, the clamps holding the wings were removed and an elf entering the creature's cage fed leather straps through bolts fastened through the dragon's scales. These were on the head and throat, and around the muzzle; all of them showed scarring and crusts of dried blood. They had been screwed directly into the animal's flesh.

I see! That's how the dragons are steered. It's pain that does it.
Virssagòn had to admire the elves' ingenuity.

The second elf swung up into the saddle and checked the arrow quivers and spear holders to see if they had their full complement. While one of the riders piloted the dragon, the other one would operate the weaponry.

The elf who had attached the leather straps spoke to the animal, stroking its head. Then he took his seat. Fishing a lance from the wall he poked it between the bars of the cave and activated a lever on one of the pulleys.

This set the chains in motion and the entrance was revealed. Wind swept in through the opening and Virssagòn caught sight of one of the landing platforms.

The elves each put on belts that would ensure they did not fall out during any violent maneuvers, then hooked something else on to their armor.

What could that be?
Virssagòn saw a wire leading from the armor to the dragon's neck, where it was fastened to a bolt, but it didn't look like it had anything to do with the steering. Virssagòn thought for a moment. If the dragon were to lose his rider, the wire would rip out the bolt and probably slit the creature's throat. It looked like an insurance feature.
The elves and the dragons don't trust each other completely.

The creature's powerful back legs were still chained up. It strained impatiently at its fetters.

The pilot called something out and tugged hard at the reins, causing blood to drip from where the bolts protruded. The dragon immediately became docile—on the surface, at least.

But Virssagòn had read the expression in the creature's eyes: an urgent desire to kill its tormentors. A wild nature, solely constrained by fear of pain.
That's good!

The lance tip swept around and touched a second lever that would free the chains anchoring the dragon. As soon as the creature was freed, the flight would begin.

Virssagòn came out of the niche, pulled two pointed weapons from the holsters behind his shoulders, and hurled them both at the elves. The custom harness the holsters were attached to was especially helpful: one only had to reach behind one's head, grab and throw; no time was wasted.

The hardened points of the weapons pierced the elves' helmets and penetrated their necks, killing them before they'd had a chance to notice him. They both hung dead in the saddle.

Those safety belts did not help you much.
The dragon eyed him suspiciously, apparently able to recognize that Virssagòn was no elf.

“Take a good look, my friend.” Virssagòn unfastened the wires from the elves' reinforced jackets and yanked the two corpses out of the saddle. They thumped down on the ground. “Remember, you owe me your liberty,” he told the dragon. He did not allow his own nervousness to show while he was close to the dragon's mouth. He pulled the
leather reins out, throwing them away. He then lifted the safety wire and removed the loop from its catch.

The slitted eyes of the white-gray dragon followed every move he made.

“Are you interested in avenging yourself on your tormentors, perhaps?” Virssagòn reached through the bars and moved the lever back. Finally, the dragon's back legs were freed. Virssagòn moved to the side to give the dragon room to maneuver. “Shall I go and release your friends?”

The dragon rushed past him and onto the platform. It unfolded its wings and they flapped and cracked as they caught the wind. With a screech the creature launched into the air and out of Virssagòn's field of vision. He heard another loud cry and a whooshing sound, then silence returned.

He was disappointed.
It would have been too good to be true. It would have saved me a lot of work.

The gong sounded again.

The elves will send out replacements. I should get going.
He ran back through the corridor and up the ramp toward the other dragon cells.

It was lucky for Virssagòn that the other guardrooms were not occupied. He freed half a dozen of the scaled creatures at his leisure. Like the gray-white one they all took to the skies and never looked back at their mountain prison.

They had obviously been mistreated, so Virssagòn had secretly hoped at least one of the dragons would respond to his kind words and become an ally, but this did not happen. He slit the throat of two of the dragons while they were still chained—it would not do to give them too many troops to fight with, for who knew which army they would turn on?

He left the dragon quarters and looked out into the corridor, inching his way forward.
Ah, here they come,
he thought, looking down.

The elves had realized what was happening and were swarming, armed, into the corridors. It would be almost impossible for him to avoid them. Ten were heading straight for where he stood.

The sun was climbing in the sky and sent its rays, reflected off upright mirrors, deep into the interior of the mountain. He would not be able to hug the shadows any longer.

I shall wait until the barbarians attack before deciding on my next course of action. I should be able to avoid capture until then.
Virssagòn concealed himself in one of the empty dragon cells. He stepped out onto the platform to watch events on the battlefield unfold.

The barbarians advanced on three fronts in double rows: a strategy designed to conserve energy. The humans at the front beat the snow down to help those bringing up the rear. They had brought ladders with them, but it had not been possible to construct heavy siege equipment in the short time available. Of course, the barbarians were working on the assumption that Virssagòn was going to open up the entrance for them.
Try praying to your gods; you'll need their support.

Below him and above, riders piloted the rest of their dragons into the skies; loose chains hung down from their claws. Elves in the dragon-rider uniform sat firmly on their saddles, prepared for conflict.

Virssagòn saw no chance for his allies.
But watching the battle should be exciting.

Even at the first assault the dragon-riders made huge inroads as they flew in low over the barbarians' heads. The long chains the dragons held dragged through the snow and crashed into their victims, flinging men aside and knocking gaps in the lines. The lucky ones were able to struggle back onto their feet with only slight injuries.

The barbarians sped up. The attack had only renewed their resolve to get to the mountain.

Virssagòn saw the six dragons he had released dive in formation out of the heavens and plunge down to attack the humans. They plowed through the lines, snapping wildly and flew off with their prey, devouring their flesh while still in flight. Bloody gobbets and bits of metal fell onto the soldiers.

Cursed brood! Is that all the thanks I get? Should have slit your throats like I did with that last pair.

A called question came from behind.

Virssagòn turned around slowly and found himself threatened by five elves wielding spears. Behind them came three others with bows at the ready. “I presume you are asking who I am?” he whispered in response. “Then hear this: I am your death.”

One of the archers said something in the elf language. The one in front pointed to Virssagòn's eyes in horror. “Älf!” he hissed.

Virssagòn spread his arms out from his body to the sides and then back, as if about to dive into a lake. “Who wants to embrace death?” he said quietly, a cold smile playing on his lips.

With this unnatural arm movement he had activated a mechanism in his armor, releasing tiny concealed steel springs that propelled rivets toward the enemy.

The sharpened points hit home, knocking the elves bleeding to the ground. The silvery poison the tips contained killed within two heartbeats. Virssagòn was passionate about his sophisticated armor and enormously proud of the secret refinements.

Two further elves appeared at the cell door, raising their weapons.

You won't get me.
He stepped to the side and plunged down off the platform to land on the one immediately below.

Somersaulting, he rolled back in through the open cage doors of the dragon cell below, drawing his sword and the short metal stave as he did so.

He came to a stop and looked up to find he was face to face with a dragon.

Virssagòn hit the creature on the nose with the iron stave so that the creature's teeth missed him by inches, snapping on air. He ran behind the dragon to be confronted by the two elves from the room above. He plunged his sword into the first of the two riders and broke off the lance that had been thrust at him. Then he hurled the stave at the second elf, hitting it between the eyes. The enemy dropped unconscious to the floor. Virssagòn pulled his sword out of the first elf's torso, avoiding the jet of blood that spurted in its wake. The elf would inevitably bleed to death. The carnage had taken but a moment.

“I give you your freedom!” he yelled at the dragon. Then, before it could turn, Virssagòn snatched up the broken lance end and rammed it into the creature's skull from behind. The scaled monster perished with a loud screech.

Virssagòn heard the rattle of armor. More of the enemy confronted him.
They have come after me, but the cowards are using that ramp instead of leaping out like I did.

He slit the unconscious elf's throat with his sword and, taking his iron stave, launched himself off of the edge of the cave to land on the stone jetty below.

As he fell he caught sight of the battlefield.

The barbarians had not advanced more than a few hundred paces toward the mountain entrance and the snow at their feet was red. The army was in disarray and many were running to save themselves. This only made them easier targets for the diving dragons and the elf bowmen's arrows.

A textbook massacre.
Virssagòn was unmoved by the fate of the slaughtered barbarians, but he was annoyed at the waste it represented: he had wanted the barbarians to at least get to the gate in order to provide a distraction.

When he landed he found himself in front of a large iron grid in the rock.

Now what?
There were no further platforms right or left he could jump to and on the one above him he could already see elf faces peering over the edge. They could see, looking down, that he was cornered.

Can I hide inside a crack in the rock?
Virssagòn looked at the rough surface of the mountain. The rock crumbled away as he put his hand out to it. He recalled his initial fall by the gate and was in no hurry to repeat the experience from the height he was currently at.

A first spear landed close, splintering on the stone, and two arrows hit his armor, ricocheting harmlessly off the metal: a tribute to its robust construction.

One of them will hit me on the head soon, no matter how ineffective their training.
He slipped back to the entrance, hoping the crew would open the gate to grab at him. Otherwise he was going to get shot; that much was clear. He deflected another arrow with his raised sword.

A dark shadow surged down from the sky with a furious screech and skimmed the platform the elves were standing on. Screaming, they plunged over the edge and bounced down the rough rock of the mountainside. The flesh was ripped from their bones.

The liberated dragon that had saved him then returned in an elegant swoop and landed on the newly empty stone jetty, folding its wings.

Does it want to get inside again?
Virssagòn could hardly believe his eyes. All the released dragons had gathered on the stone platforms facing the direction of their cells—but then, as if in response to a silent command, they simultaneously spewed their fiery breath through the grating into the mountain's interior.

Flames shot out of the guardroom windows and propelled burning elves to the exterior.

Virssagòn hoped the cells he was currently standing in front of would stay shut.
What unpredictable, changeable beasts these dragons are.
He glanced down at the battlefield again. The barbarian army lay routed and the elf-riders were completing their final circuits.

Virssagòn was suddenly aware of his misunderstanding.
Of course! That's it! Hunger motivated the creatures I released
.
They were in need of sustenance and now they have returned to wreak vengeance on their tormentors!

The dragons disappeared into their cells. The low rushing sound that accompanied the flames gushing from their nostrils was slightly muffled now. Fire and smoke were disgorged at various places through apertures in the mountainside as the conflagration inside the mountain spread.