Devastating Hate (51 page)

Virssagòn laughed out loud.
So the barbarians did serve a purpose in the end! Without them, the dragons would have been too weak to take their revenge.
He sat down on the jetty to watch events as they happened.

The dragons the elves were piloting also rebelled abruptly and executed hair-raising aerial stunts to throw off their saddles. Some purposefully crashed landed, together with their crew. Virssagòn saw some larger specimens carrying four elf-warriors hurtling intentionally toward the cliff-face. The dragons had begun to revolt.

He heard loud hissing coming from the gate behind him. A wave of heat hit him. It felt as if the stone was blazing with invisible fire.

Virssagòn sprang to his feet as the gate slowly opened. Bars broke away from the grating and there was a fearful noise: the dragon that the
elves had imprisoned behind the bars had broken free and activated the opening mechanism.

The dragon is unlikely to make an exception for me.
He took the spear he was still holding and snapped off the shaft so that he could use the blade like a knife, then he drew out his dagger and climbed out sideways from the narrow platform, hoping to evade the dragon's sightline. He rammed the metal blades into the slim gaps in the rock to give himself a hold.

Virssagòn gradually worked his way down until he was hanging diagonally underneath the jetty. He was very keen that the beast should not spot him.

A roar sounded above his head. The platform shook.

There was a clatter when the clawed feet landed and then a mighty white dragon leaped off the jetty, unfolding its wings and floating with a howl of hunger toward the last humans, who were desperately trying to escape across the snow.

That was a good move, getting out of the beast's way.
Virssagòn watched the scaly creature land in the middle of the band of humans and attack them with its claws, striking them dead with its tail before devouring them.
The elves have been arrogant enough to keep the dragons as if they were normal animals
,
thinking to control them by means of keeping them hungry and inflicting pain.

The white dragon's body measured fifteen paces, plus a long tail and a long neck. Once the wings were unfurled it would never have fit through the vast gates. Virssagòn was fascinated by the animal's grace in flight and in killing, despite its gigantic proportions.

By now there were no more elves in the air. The dragons they had been riding were either dead on the valley floor or smashed to smithereens on the side of the mountain, surrounded by the mangled bodies of their riders. The only dragons still in flight were the ones recently liberated by Virssagòn.

Virssagòn had found a good spot where he could use his feet to help keep his balance, thus relieving the strain on his arms. He was waiting to see what the white dragon would do next.

The beast had finished its meal and flapped its broad wings, whirling up clouds of snow. Suddenly it shot out of the white cloud of flakes, giving a baleful cry that the other dragons joined in with. Its muzzle and the pale chitin plates on the underside, throat, tail and feet were all covered in barbarian blood.

An impressive sight!
Virssagòn felt reluctant respect for these enormous creatures. He would never be able to defend himself against them, he realized. To stay safe, he swirled darkness around himself in his niche under the narrow platform.

The white monster landed on the ground at the gateway and spat bright fire against the golden patterns carved on the gateway. At the first round of flames the relief started to melt and at the second, the metal cladding liquefied completely. The dragon pushed through the ruins of the gate and poked his head into the mountain's interior.

Virssagòn could only guess what was happening, but when another muffled rushing noise was heard, and blazing jets of fire shot out of the lower part of the mountain, hurling ash into the open, he was certain he knew. The white animal, supposedly created by Sitalia as brother to the elves, was employing his lethal fire-breath time and again.

A number of elves opted to jump out of the windows in panic or they plunged out in flames, dying when they hit the ground. The smaller dragons spat fire through the upper levels, creating such heat that normal breathing was impossible without scalding the lungs. Virssagòn could see from the flickering light that flames were shooting out of the opening in the rock above him.

Exactly how long the dragons gave vent to their hatred it was impossible to say, but eventually the white dragon withdrew. It licked its snout, let out an ear-splitting roar and flapped its wings powerfully, rising from the midst of a glittering cloud. It made off toward the south and the smaller of the species followed it into the distance.

That was my masterpiece.
Virssagòn climbed back up onto the stone ledge, only to be soaked by a veritable cascade of meltwater.

The whole mountain was steaming and its covering of snow was melting.

It'll be some time before it's safe for me to go inside the mountain.
He looked down.
I have no alternative but to climb down the cliff face.

It was a tough decision for Virssagòn to have to make, but in the end he took off his precious armor, leaving it in relative safety by the entrance, which was still emitting an incredible temperature and the odd cloud of ash.
I'll come back for it as soon as I can.

He clambered down nimbly and without the encumbrance of the heavy armor.

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris,

4371
^st
and 4372
^nd
divisions of unendingness (5199
^th
/5200
^th
solar cycles),

winter.

Jiggon fell down the slope, rubbing his skin raw.
Where the blazes is the water?

He grabbed at a thick root and halted his fall. Clods of earth and some gravel rolled past him to splash into water far below. So the river was still there, but for some strange reason there was a lot less of it than there should have been.

As his eyes got used to the darkness, Jiggon assessed his whereabouts.

He was hanging a couple of paces above swift-flowing waters, which looked more like a mountain torrent than the placid defense moat he was used to. A waterfall he could just see roared into the darkness.
What have the dorón ashont done? Have they drained the moat? But what on earth for? All that effort instead of using rafts to cross it?

Jiggon knew how to swim, but he did not let go of the root he was clinging to. A vague feeling of unease warned him it might be better not to dive into the flood. He did not know where the racing waters might take him.

I wonder if the black-eyes are still watching?
He pushed against the bank of the river with his toes, looking for some solid support. Slowly but surely he made his way back up and found a jutting ledge he could grab hold of.

When he arrived under the shelf he listened carefully before heaving himself up over the edge, his arm muscles protesting at every movement. He would not have been able to hang on much longer.

The quiet immediately struck him.

He could hear nothing but the wind, and could see snowflakes and ash falling, uninterrupted to the ground; some got in his eyes. He rubbed them. The ash stung and made his eyes water.

Dead dorón ashont lay strewn across the battlefield, as did älfar warriors, night-mares and humans. The last remaining tents in the Ownerless Army's camp were still burning. The battle had been fought and lost.

With streaming eyes he looked again.

Where are they all?
Jiggon was alone.

There were no älfar stalking the field, and there were no live dorón ashont as far as he could see. No humans seemed to have survived: the Army of the Ownerless had been wiped out—with the exception of himself.

The wind turned and he was enveloped in smoke from the burning camp. The smell of singed corpses made him sick to his stomach and he vomited.

He had not the remotest idea what would become of him, nor what he ought to do. He did not even pray; the sight of all of those dead bodies had removed his faith in the gods. They had not intervened. No deity had stood with them.

All in vain.
He pictured the faces of his family and of his comrades in arms. He recalled what Khalomein had said shortly before the battle and had a sudden insight.

Jiggon turned his head and looked toward Ishím Voróo.
That's where my future lies, not here. I'll never be a slave again.

He dragged the armor off a dead älf, took his weapons and went off in search of a safe path.

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

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

winter.

Carmondai had left before first light, heading in the direction of the mountain where the elves lived with the dragon. He torched the village he had stayed in overnight, hoping that the warming-tower would also be destroyed.

After a few miles he came across a dragon lying dead in the snow; in its claws it held the remains of a half-consumed elf—the same elf he had fought in the woods. The poison that had done for its master had eventually caused the dragon's own demise.
It probably hated the elves, then. That's a relief. I was afraid that it would come back and get me.

As the daystar rose in the sky, he saw the mountain not far away—and an army advancing toward it.

Must be Virssagòn's barbarians. Damn! I'll be too late.
Carmondai was about to spur his night-mare on when he saw dragons flying out from the mountain and swooping down on the warriors.

He brought his steed to a halt.
Too dangerous.
He rode over to the shelter of a tree to observe what was happening. So many impressions were crying out to be recorded. So much needed sketching!

He was obviously witnessing a rebellion. Some of the dragons, led by a particularly impressive dragon with white scales, had turned on their masters and were attacking the elves' mountain. Carmondai was transfixed by the image of the steaming rock, the inside alive with red and orange tongues of dragon-breath. He was inspired by everything he beheld.

Finally the dragons took off one by one and flew south, completing a circuit overhead, as if to show off to the artist.

Carmondai sighed with relief as they flew on.
Not an enemy I'd have wanted to take on.
He stowed away his drawing equipment, mounted his night-mare and galloped toward the mountain, where the fires still burned.

As he rode, the flames began to recede and the smoke got thinner, giving way to the steam vapor rising off the slopes.

Even if Carmondai preferred to write about events he had actually witnessed, he was enormously glad that he had not accompanied Virssagòn on this particular outing.

I hope he has not met endingness. His death would make for good reading in my epic, of course, but it would sadden me and it's not what he deserves.

Carmondai passed through the area where the Ishím Voróo barbarians had been mown down by the dragons. Snow stained red from human lifeblood spurted up as he galloped through, kicked into the air
by the night-mare's hooves. He was forced to reduce his speed as he rode through the despoiled corpses.

At last he reached the entrance.

A gateway stood empty and unguarded, the walls within black with soot.

Carmondai could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the golden lake that had solidified in front of the entrance. The white dragon's claw prints were clearly visible in the hardened gold.

None of the elves will have survived that inferno. Nothing can live through heat that melts gold.

“Late!” He heard Virssagòn's voice to the right. “What kept you, Carmondai?”

“I was here in time for my purposes. I doubt I'd have survived if I'd come any earlier,” he replied with a laugh. “What an inferno! How come you've not got your armor on?”

“It was easier for the descent. I was there.” He pointed to the fourth platform up. “The only thing for it was to climb down the cliff. It was a little too hot for me to come through the inside.” He gave an answering laugh. “Did the battle look good from where you were?”

“My paintings will celebrate your glorious deed,” Carmondai promised. But then he wanted more information: “Tell me, was everything part of your grand plan, or did it just happen?”

Virssagòn grinned. “I'd call it a plan that just happened, but it's the final result that matters.” He came over. “Can you give me a lift? My night-mare ought to be somewhere over there if the elves haven't killed it. We can't get inside the mountain anyway. It'll probably need about forty divisions of unendingness before the rock has cooled sufficiently for me to go back and retrieve my armor. But I want to tell the nostàroi what I have achieved. Then I'll come back with a unit of mounted spear-carriers and make sure there are no elves skulking in a crevice somewhere.”

“Of course.” Carmondai hauled him up on to the saddle and they rode back the way he had come. “How many dragons are dead?”

“I don't know, but it must be at least half a dozen. And I have no idea how many elves I've killed. It's a shame. It would make an impressive story for your epic.”

“Why should you get the credit? It was the dragons,” Carmondai teased him.
Well, well. He's very keen to have me honor his deeds in my masterpiece.

“But I was the one that motivated them,” Virssagòn protested.

“What about the white dragon and his . . . entourage? I saw them fly off south; do you think they'll come back?” Carmondai was distinctly uneasy at the thought the dragons could reappear. He had seen with his own eyes what they were capable of.

“I could not have done anything about them: dragons can wipe out whole armies with their breath. Let's pray to the gods of infamy that they fly right over the mountains and never come back. I'm pretty sure they'll want to avoid the whole region after what the elves did to them.”

“Let's hope so.” Carmondai did not know how assess the battle, or what conclusions he could draw: was it a victory or had it merely given his people an advantage for the war in Tark Draan?

They reached the place where Virssagòn had tethered his night-mare. The steed had disappeared. So they rode back together on Carmondai's mount through the snowy landscape that had once been Gwandalur, back toward the new älfar realm.

Now there's only Lesinteïl and Âlandur to sort out.
“Tell me what it was like inside the mountain, Virssagòn,” said Carmondai, taking out his notebook. “What was it like inside, before the fire?”

And Virssagòn described the mountain fortress before its destruction in the dragon-breath inferno.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southeast of the Gray Mountains, formerly known as the Golden Plain,

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

late winter.

I need an alternative word for “killing.” A word that sounds grander, more epic.
Carmondai sat at his desk in the generously proportioned stone building allocated to him by Imàndaris. Recently, all his time had been
spent writing up his notes or consulting his sketches. He almost never left his quarters, or bothered to find out about events elsewhere in Tark Draan.
Slaughter. That's a good one.
He scribbled away, amending the passage.

This was his way of coming to terms with the shock of Dsôn's annihilation.

Carmondai uttered a sigh.
Isn't this all a complete waste of time?
When he finished his poem, how would he get it duplicated? There were no chancelleries back home anymore, of course, where he could get scribes to do the copying. And who would read it, anyway?
Any survivors have more than enough to contend with.

Carmondai leaned back and surveyed the scene outside.

There was a buzz of activity in the crater. Slaves toiled ceaselessly to put up buildings and straighten the crater edges. A second Dsôn was being born.

Carmondai felt torn in two. He longed to return to the radial arms to support what was left of his own people, but he was frightened that he would catch the parasite-borne disease that had somehow survived Dsôn's annihilation. That was not how he wanted to end his days.

He drank some water flavored with preserved berry juice. As there were no supplies to be had from Dsôn Faïmon, there was no option but to make use of Tark Draan's local resources. In the spring they would start working the fields of the Golden Plain; they had managed to procure a few seed samples from the homeland.

I wonder when the blockade will be lifted?
He got up and went over to the window. Imàndaris was striding toward his house through the melting snow wearing her full nostàroi armor. He opened the door to her before she knocked. “Greetings.” He held out his hand and she grasped it.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you?”

“Not at all. I'm giving my mind a little rest.” He admitted her.

Her gaze took in the piles of paper that lay on the table, chairs, window ledges and stairs. Random thoughts, finished pages from the epic poem, sketches and finished illustrations had been written or drawn upon them, and there were easels in the corner of the room at which he had been working at two pictures simultaneously. Pots of paint stood
nearby and there was a smell of solvent that Carmondai only became aware of after he had taken a breath of fresh air at the door. And now he noticed the splashes of color on his robe: green, brown and red. The nostàroi's visit pulled him out of his creative haze.

“You had all that in your folder?” she asked him, impressed.

“Wait—let me make room for you to sit down.” He smiled and removed a heap of papers from one of the chairs. “Some of it, but most of it is recent.”
I wonder what she wants?

Imàndaris settled on the chair and studied him. “We hadn't seen you for some time and had been getting worried.”

“Who is
we
?”

“The älfar of Dsôn Balsur, that's who.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So that's what we're calling the new realm?”
The new child has arrived and has been given a name. This is the end for Dsôn Faïmon.

“That is the name the Inextinguishables have chosen.”

Carmondai thought he must have misheard. “The Siblings are here in the crater?”

Imàndaris's joy at this development wasn't as enthusiastic as he expected. “They happened to be on their way here to inspect the new mountain when the dorón ashont wiped Dsôn out. Caphalor thinks the Towers that Walk used the stores of acid the alchemancers had accumulated. Survivors claim to have seen glass barrels with fflecx symbols on them.”

The Inextinguishables.
Carmondai could not believe his ears. It meant that Dsôn Faïmon had been totally abandoned, once and for all. “Is the blockade over?”

“No. Caphalor still has troops stationed at the Stone Gateway. He writes that there are still new cases of the parasite-sickness causing death in the camps outside the gate. A single victim can infect a further hundred with the purple phaiu su.” Imàndaris gave a deep sigh. “There's a reason for my visit: I've been asked to oversee the construction of Dsôn Balsur according to the wishes of the Inextinguishables. I need your help, Carmondai.”

“Me? Surely we have experts—”

“The experts are dead or in Ishím Voróo,” she interrupted, seizing hold of his hand. “Please! You have a fertile mind and wide-ranging gifts.”

This was flattering, but a very challenging task to take on: he would have to finish his epic, do all the illustrations and build a city at the same time. “What has happened to Dsôn Faïmon? Have the Sibling Rulers said anything?”

“They told me that the new empire is to be based here. Anyone who wants to remain in Dsôn Faïmon may do so when the effects of the acid have lessened, but the elves' former Golden Plain is to be the new älfar home. They said the crater and the Creating Spirit's tear are signs that the old is to be cast aside and the new embraced. Dsôn Balsur is to emerge with its center here. We will subjugate the other elf lands from this base. The elves of Lesinteïl and Âlandur will be eliminated. The whole of Tark Draan will belong to us. They will be making an official announcement very soon.”

He could tell how dejected she was from her tone of voice. The news depressed him, too. It was hard to give up Dsôn Faïmon after all those divisions of unendingness, after all the wars that had been fought in its defense, after all the hardships the älfar had endured for its sake.
Does the homeland mean nothing to our rulers?
“Right. It's to be Dsôn Balsur. I see.” He repeated the name quietly a few times. “How many inhabitants are there in the new realm?”

She gave a forced laugh. “A few thousand.”

The wildest thoughts raced around his head: the älfar rate of reproduction was slow; this would make the conquest of Tark Draan in the coming divisions of unendingness difficult, to say the least.
Toboribar's óarcos will outnumber us ten to one. And the barbarians breed like rabbits.
“We shall have to pray to the gods of infamy that the plague will be over soon so that the survivors can join us here.”

He had an intimation of the tragic fate awaiting those left in Dsôn. The outcome of the battle at its walls would soon be known. Without the island fortresses and the älfar to defend them, it would not be long before the scum of the earth would plunder what was left of it. The survivors were in dire peril.

His people were certainly resilient, but they were weakened now to a greater degree than ever before. Carmondai knew of no ancient saga, no epic poetry, no heroic ballads that told of any similar fate.
And I am here in Tark Draan.

“We won't be praying to the gods of infamy.”

“What do you mean?”