Devastating Hate (19 page)

“An inti-herb infusion.”

“Oh, I've got something that's better. Remind me to give it to you before you go home. If I give it to you now you'll fall asleep, and we need to hear what you have to say.”

Arganaï nodded. This was the eleventh invitation he'd had from influential Dsôn families since his return. He had more or less been forced to accept them all. You could not turn these people down if you wanted to avoid any trouble. However, the more he told his story the better known his name became, so his chances for promotion had suddenly risen. Demenion was also a leading light of the Comets faction and their influence had grown with Sinthoras's rise to power. Arganaï had been told he might get a chance to speak to the Inextinguishables.

“You'll have to make allowances if I need to take a few breaks.”

“But of course, my guests will understand.”

Arganaï was led into another room. He could smell of a mixture of perfumes and hear soft music. The murmured conversations died away
as the guests realized he had arrived. His host introduced him to the company so that he could make his report to them.

It feels like I'm here for their edification, not to simply report the facts. Everyone in Dsôn and the radial arms has heard the news by now, anyway.
He felt like some artist who people were being polite to, but who was not really being taken seriously. He felt their eyes on him. They must be looking at the stump of his arm.

Without any particular enthusiasm he recounted his story again. He had told it so often now that he did not really have to concentrate on choosing his words.

No one dared interrupt him, and when he had finished, there was applause.

A fresh wave of nausea hit him. “Forgive me if I leave now,” he apologized, “but I have this fever—”

“We will let you go, of course. Our best wishes for your recovery,” said Demenion, who appeared at his side. “But perhaps you would be good enough to answer a few questions first, if my guests have any?”

Arganaï was aware this was no request. “I'll do my best,” he said weakly.

“So you are absolutely sure that they were dorón ashont?” someone asked. The voice was female. “Couldn't they have been half-giants or young ogres or some other monster of that type?”

“I am absolutely certain.” He left it at that.
I don't care whether or not she believes me, just as long as the Inextinguishables do.

“Do you think they can cross the defense canal on their rafts?” a worried-sounding male älf asked.

Arganaï felt his stomach protesting again and had to clamp his jaws together to stop himself from vomiting. His skin was prickling and his belly was making strange noises. “They are huge creatures,” he answered quickly, noting that his breath smelled sour. That medical drink had really turned his insides upside down. “But they'd have to cross the open space first, and that would bring them in range of the catapults. I don't think they present a real danger to us.” He swayed. “I really have to go, Demenion,” he whispered. “I am as weak as an aged barbarian. The wound—” His knees started to give way under him.

Two of the älfar sprang to his side and held him upright, taking him outside while the applause echoed behind him.

“My thanks,” said Demenion, who escorted him to the door. “This has been a very successful evening, thanks to you. I shall put in a good word for you if the opportunity arises. You should climb the career ladder quickly.” He patted him on the shoulder and disappeared back to his guests.

Outside on the street Arganaï fought for breath.

The fresh air helped a little. He was still being supported but he was starting to feel a little more confident and his vision was beginning to clear. “Thank you,” he said to his companions, who nodded at him encouragingly. Pride won through. “I'll be fine on my own.”

“You sure?” one of them said, pressing a small vial into his hand. “Demenion said to give you this. Should help with the nausea. Take a couple of small swigs in the morning.”

“Thank you, I'm sure.” Arganaï moved off, his legs stiff. He wandered through the streets looking at the buildings. If you lived in this part of town you had to show you could afford to and the owners had not held back their creative flare.

The least influential inhabitants only had intricate decorations in precious metals, or murals—where the conquest of Tark Draan was a popular motif. Some house fronts had been completely renovated and already included the downfall of the dorón ashont. Paintings representing älfar enemies incorporated preserved parts of dead bodies. It made for a fascinating mix of culture. There were comparatively few outright sculptures or any abstract forms. Tastes would probably change again in the near future.

Looking at the architecture gave Arganaï something to concentrate on other than his nausea. Even his arm stump had stopped throbbing. He was not aware of these improvements at first, but by the time he had reached his quarters, he was feeling better than he had for a long time.

He found a dozen älfar guards in the room, snoozing in preparation for the early shift.

He got undressed, hung his clothes on the hook by the bed and lay down on the mattress. He took out the vial and looked at it.
But the pain has gone! Do I need it?

Arganaï did not yet know what would become of him. He would not be able to go on guard duty with only one arm. He was too young to train other warriors and there was no question of taking up an occupation in the weapons store or in administration. Art was not his thing, either, and he did not enjoy speechifying. He did not see himself as anything other than a warrior.

What am I going to do for the rest of unendingness?
He stared at his stump.
I'm a fighter and I'm going to drill and practice until I can hold my own with any two-armed warrior!

It suddenly occurred to him that he could have an artificial limb made. A substitute arm, perhaps in the shape of a weapon . . .

Why didn't I think of that before?
This idea improved his general mood tremendously. He took a couple of careful sips of the potion Demenion had sent him to speed up the healing process. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep.
I'm going to be one of the best soldiers in Dsôn!

A hot stab of pain went through his belly and his skin suddenly felt as if it had been whipped with red-hot wire.

Arganaï shot upright on his bed and tried to shout—but there was a hard, dry lump blocking his throat. He thought he was suffocating and grabbed at his throat with both hands. It was as hard as iron.

Help!
He thought in desperation, looking at his sleeping comrades, but they noticed nothing. He was about to climb out of bed, but his legs had stopped working.

Everything was burning. Enormous pressure built up within his body; his head felt close to exploding.

With a strangled cry Arganaï fell back onto the bed.

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

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

early autumn.

Autumn had come to Dsôn. The dark gray leaves of the native black beeches drifted onto the surface of the defense canal, forming small islets that floated serenely this way and that.

On the lateral lookout tower of island fortress one-eight-seven, Téndalor stood watching as nature had its way. It was a pleasant sight that had a calming effect on his soul and gave him the opportunity to let his thoughts wander.

On the other side of the water lay Ishím Voróo. Somewhere to the northwest of the region the dorón ashont waited. The älfar empire expected their attack, but none had come as yet.

I'd never have guessed we'd see their like again.
Téndalor would have liked to send out scouts to see what the dorón ashont were up to, but he had been given strict orders to do nothing: the Inextinguishables did not want to tempt fate or provoke the enemy. Instead, the empire put its faith in its defense catapults and the effectiveness of the cleared exclusion zone on the far side of the canal. No enemy crossing that area would escape the hail of arrows, spears, burning missiles and stones that would rain down on them.

Téndalor drew out his dagger and worked on the complex rune he had been scratching in the hard stone of the battlements. It symbolized protection from danger and was, of course, strictly forbidden. Translated, it was something like:
In the protecting hands of Fadhasi.

Téndalor had come across the Fadhasi cult many divisions of unendingness previously, in the depths of Ishím Voróo. The folk that used to worship Fadhasi were long gone, destroyed by the älfar.

Téndalor had been intrigued by the idea of praying to a god who had only one follower—himself. He used the tip of his knife to chisel away at the grooves of the rune.
A god of my very own. Don't you go letting me down, Fadhasi!

A horn blast from the Dsôn Faïmon side of the water made him turn his head.
This will be our supplies.

He gave his soldiers the command to lower the bridge on the city side so that the carts could deliver their freight to the island. The stores included arrows, spears and spares for the catapults in case repairs were needed.

Téndalor blew the dust away from his rune symbol, put his knife back in its sheath and hurried down the tower steps to check over the consignment.

He was not concerned about the quality generally, but something might have gotten damaged en route and he did not want any faulty equipment. If they suddenly had to mend an item in the middle of an attack and opened up a crate to find a load of junk, they'd be in real trouble.

His men were already busy unloading when he got down to the small courtyard. “Let's get these lids off, then.”

The soldiers opened the crates and checked the contents carefully. It looked as if everything was in good order, so they packed it all away again tidily. Every square inch of space was required for storing ammunition and space was always at a premium on the island. The news of a possible invasion had only made things worse in that respect.

“What a waste,” muttered the female cart driver, not helping at all.

“What do you mean? What's being wasted?” Téndalor looked at her in surprise. He knew she was called Ilinia. She had made deliveries to them before.

“It's a waste of my time.” She leaned against the wheel with a frustrated expression. “I earn my money taking cereal crops from the big farms to Dsôn or to the mills.” She nodded in the direction of the crates. “But instead I've got to do unpaid war work for the Inextinguishables. And nobody knows if there's really going to be an attack, anyway.”

Téndalor raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“I do. And I don't mind repeating it.”

“We're here to protect you, Ilinia! If the dorón ashont—”

She gave a scornful laugh. “The bogeymen from the nursery rhymes? I know the old myth about how the Inextinguishables tricked them with poisoned wine. All älfar children know the old story of the Towers that Walk, but show me one person who has actually seen them, Benàmoi!”

“An älf named Arganaï. We saved his life.”

“He
says
he's seen them. But did you?” She came away from the cart and moved antagonistically toward him. “Did
you
see them?”

“No,” he had to admit. “I haven't seen them myself.”

“And have we had reports confirming the sightings?”

Téndalor clenched his jaw. “What are you trying to say?”

“I just find it strange, Benàmoi, that we are going along with the word of one single älf, and if we haven't sent a squadron out to verify his story, is it because the Inextinguishables aren't sure they believe him?”

He gestured toward her cart. “And why would they send you from one island fortress to the next with a load of arrows and spears if we weren't expecting an attack?”

Ilinia shrugged her shoulders. “How should I know what goes on in the minds of the Sibling Rulers? Perhaps they just want to make you
think
there's an invasion coming, so that you stay especially alert. We all know a whole obboona unit managed to get over into the empire. They won't want that happening again, will they?”

Téndalor did not want to agree openly. But he had been thinking it odd that he'd been told not to send any scouts out to investigate.
Maybe they don't really believe this Arganaï and they've just brought our supplies up to date with the aim of calming the fears of the populace
. “It's all one to me. I assume—”

There came a shout from the tower: “Benàmoi! There's a groundling on the other side of the water!”

Ilinia looked puzzled. “What do the groundlings think they're doing here?”

Téndalor hurried over to the passage, to make his way up the tower. “You should reconsider your opinion, I think, Ilinia!”

Swift as the southern wind, he raced up the steps to reach the viewing platform where two watchmen were waiting for him. “Are you both quite sure?” He looked over toward Ishím Voróo and did not have to wait for their answer. It was all too true.

On the other side of the river there was a solid little figure: a groundling, indeed, waving a huge white flag.

I don't get it.
Téndalor was handed the spy tube. He observed the edge of the forest carefully through the polished lens.
Nothing there. He's come on his own.
“How long has he been there?”

“We saw him coming over the plain. At first we thought it was some small animal that had lost its way,” one of the guards explained. “I wanted to let it get a bit closer so we could test out our catapults, but then we noticed we'd got it wrong. He had the flag over his shoulder and then he started waving it like crazy.”

Téndalor put the spy-tube down.
My island fortress seems to be where it's all happening.
“He's obviously keen to negotiate. But what about?”

“The Stone Gateway?” suggested the second guard. “Or the other passes? They see themselves as the ones that protect the whole land, I've heard. Perhaps the groundlings have sent an envoy wanting to reach an agreement with the Sibling Rulers.”

Téndalor thought that was unlikely, but he couldn't come up with a better idea. “Let's find out.”

He turned and gave the order for a troop of twenty älfar to accompany him. He wasn't allowed to send a scout to Ishím Voróo, but if he stayed on the bridge he was not contravening his instructions. He arranged for the catapult team to stand ready.
I'm not afraid of one little groundling, but this looks suspicious to me.

Téndalor ran down the steps and jumped on to his night-mare. The chains and pulleys creaked and clattered and clanked until the wooden drawbridge linking the island to Dsôn was shut; the watch had ignored Ilinia's furious protests. She was stuck on the island now.

“We're ready, Benàmoi!” called one of the soldiers.

Téndalor gave the order to lower the drawbridge over to Ishím Voróo. The heavy chains unrolled slowly until the wooden structure landed with a bump onto its anchor point on the other side of the water.

Téndalor rode over with his escort and approached the waiting groundling, who took a step forward onto the end of the bridge. Téndalor looked at his light armor and appraised the dwarf's weaponry: he had a crude, ugly knife at his side; the handle of an additional long sword was visible over his shoulder. He was not very much of a threat.

Téndalor had heard about the groundlings' fondness for beards, but this one had shaved his off. His head was bald, too. Then he realized his mistake.
They've sent us a female. They probably thought we wouldn't hurt her.

She was certainly too big for a gålran zhadar and not really built like one of them. Téndalor was quite pleased about that. Those notorious Ishím Voróo beings dabbled in the magic arts and always meant trouble.

Téndalor reined in his night-mare shortly before he reached the groundling. His beast could have taken a bite at her if so ordered, but she had an open face and was smiling. His escort surrounded him as well as they could, given the dimensions of the bridge. “Do you understand me?” he asked in the language of the barbarians.

“Yes,” she replied happily, placing the end of the flagstaff on the floor. “Your accent is good.”

“Then hear this, you insolent upstart: this is Dsôn Faïmon, the land of the älfar.” Téndalor was trying to control the anger he felt at her disrespectful remark. “You can count your lucky stars that you are still alive. Normally we would have shot at anything seen on the cleared strip.”

“That's what I thought,” she said with a laugh. “I hoped you wouldn't and my god helped out a bit, too.”

This little groundling doesn't lack courage. Even though she will die for it.
“Tell me who you are and what you want from us, groundling!”

“I am Rîm and I'm an Ubari, an undergroundling.” She pointed behind her without turning around. “My camp's on the other side. My husband sent me . . .” She thought for a bit and then blinked. “I don't know what the älfar call him.”

Ubari? What on earth are they? Ridiculous name.
“Call who?”

“My husband.”

Téndalor had to laugh.
She is completely insane!
“I don't know him. And I don't care what his name is.”

She shook her bald head a little. “I don't mean his name but the name you call his people. He's rather special—”

“I think you have lost your little mind.” He turned his night-mare and ordered his escort back in to the fortress, calling out to her as he rode away. “Get off the bridge and go back to your husband. My catapults
won't start firing at you until you are one and a half miles away, so the last 500 paces over to the forest should be exciting for you.”

“One of your people has seen him, I know,” came Rîm's high voice. “It was not so long ago. Near the abandoned cobold village. My husband is much taller and wider than you and wears heavy armor . . .”

Téndalor halted his mount and pulled the beast's head around, at which it protested loudly. “Are you speaking of a dorón ashont?”

“What does that mean?”

“Tower that Walks.”

She chuckled. “He'd like that name, I'm sure. It shows respect.” Rîm held tight to the handle of her flag. “I've come because he wanted me to bring you a proposal that might prevent the destruction of your race.”

Téndalor opened his mouth, but his response was drowned out by the scornful laughter of his mounted escort. “Quiet!” he commanded, studying the ubari carefully. She was calm enough, and did not give any impression that she was afraid for her own life. And she was entirely serious. “How come your husband thinks he could defeat us?” He indicated the defense canal and the island fortresses. “Have a look. We will destroy his followers and him before they even get to the water's edge.”

“Do you not want to hear his suggestion?” she asked innocently. “If you hear us, perhaps you will be celebrated one day as the savior of your people.”

Téndalor rode toward her once more until his night-mare's head was close to her face. The animal bared its teeth and snorted expectantly. “State your terms, but don't be surprised if my people laugh at you again,” he said.

Rîm did not move; she looked past the fiery red eyes of the night-mare and stared at its rider. “What the Inextinguishables did to my husband's kind has not been forgotten, but your actions had unforeseen consequences: the poisoned wine left only the strongest and healthiest alive. These and their descendants have come to exact revenge in the name of the queen. However, the queen will be satisfied if the Inextinguishables surrender to us so that they may be punished. If they don't, we shall destroy your whole empire.”

Téndalor was lost for words. He could not even laugh. His escort had fallen silent as well. “You really are out of your mind,” he said finally, staring hard at her. “How can you—?” It was impossible to find words to express his indignation. This proposal was absolutely unacceptable for both the Sibling Rulers and for every single älf in Dsôn Faïmon. “Take her,” he ordered, turning his steed and thundering back over the drawbridge to the island.