Devastating Hate (20 page)

His escort followed, driving the ubari in front of them. She still looked quite unconcerned. She probably thought she was being taken to the Inextinguishables.

They all rode back into the fortress. The bridge was raised again and the way out to Ishím Voróo was blocked once more.

“Bring her over here!” Téndalor dismounted and went over to one of the catapults.

Rîm followed him, her white flag over her shoulder. “This isn't the palace. You are not taking me to your leaders?”

“No, and you won't be seeing them.” He gave the order to remove the heavy boulder suspended from the catapult arm. “But I'll help you get back to your husband.” The soldiers grabbed her and managed to place her in the net despite her violent struggles. Téndalor came up close to her. “If you survive this, I have a message for your husband: tell him that we will fight anew, but this time we won't leave any survivors.”

“You're trying to intimidate me, aren't you?” She was still confident, still sure she would be released any second now. “I'm just the negotiator—”

Téndalor gave the signal.

The retaining lever clicked upward and the counterweight crashed down, releasing the throwing arm.

Rîm shot, screaming, into the air, describing a high arc before reaching the edge of the forest and beginning to fall.

Ubari have a good range.

Téndalor followed her flight through his spy-tube and watched her crash down on the trees at the edge of the forest. For a short time she tried to free herself from the branches that had pierced her, but her blood ran too quickly from her body and her energy drained from her. Her head fell back as she died.

“What a shame, she won't be able to pass on my message after all.” Téndalor handed the glass to one of his troops. “But I think her husband will get the idea.” He told the crew to load the catapult again. He sent an alarm signal to the soldiers on the other islands to warn them that an attack was imminent. What had been a possibility was now a definite threat.
Unless, of course, Rîm was completely off her head and making it all up.

Téndalor went back to the courtyard where he found Ilinia climbing back on to her cart. The bridge toward Dsôn Faïmon was down and the draft horses were straining to get underway. “What do you say now?” He asked. He assumed she would have seen the whole spectacle.

“I haven't changed my mind just because some nutty groundling or whatever turned up and spouted a whole load of nonsense, Benàmoi.” She leaned down with a sneer. “Her
husband
, eh? Did I hear correctly? That would be like a night-mare mating with a puppy.”

“That's what she said, and I—” Téndalor fell silent. Deep down he was trying to make sense of what Rîm had told him. “Well, whatever . . . There
are
such things as the dorón ashont. And we're ready for them.”

Ilinia looked at him pityingly. “You'll see—nothing will happen. And all this is just wasting my time—”

Shrill alarm tones issued over the water.
An attack
.

“There you are, with your made-up story!” he hissed at her furiously. “Go, if you're leaving. We will be pulling the bridge up shortly.” Téndalor ran back up to the platform. “What's happening?”

A dull hum filled the air and something large landed in the water, causing a huge wave to drench the älfar.

They've got catapults. Fadhasi, take me in your hands!
Téndalor wiped the canal water out of his eyes. “Find out where they're shooting from,” he ordered, sending two soldiers to the top of the bridge, now in its upright position. “Hurry!”
That's what we get for not having sent out scouts.
He would never have thought the dorón ashont were capable of constructing such powerful catapults.

“Benàmoi! Over there! At the edge of the forest!”

Téndalor took a look through his spy-tube.

Had he ever needed proof of the existence of the Towers that Walk, here he had his evidence: a heavily armored dorón ashont wearing a
black martial helmet shaped like a skull stood where Rîm had crashed to earth. He tenderly lifted her body from the branches; blood trickled from her wounds, painting red lines on his armor.

He really is her husband!

As if the impressive creature could feel he was being observed, it suddenly turned and looked straight at Téndalor with great big violet-blue eyes.

Téndalor felt his throat constricting and his hands began to shake. The shaking soon took over his whole body.
That intense shade of blue . . .
He had to look away or the fear would engulf him. He could not look at those eyes a second longer.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), six hundred miles south of the Gray Mountains,

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

late summer.

“Ha! There, you see! I'm winning!” Ossandra was sitting by the village fountain with the other children. With twigs and pebbles, through which water flowed, they had made little courses in the sand. Colored flakes of wood served as little boats for their races. The prizes were pieces of honey caramel. Ossandra wiped her wet hands on her light brown dress.

“No! No! I'm much quicker!” squeaked Mollo, hopping up and down in excitement. Gatiela and Sarmatt laughed and clapped their hands.

“In your dreams!” Ossandra had already won two races and the early evening was promising another triumph. She turned her head and noticed Mollo dropping sand on to her little raft. “Stop cheating!” she said, and pushed him.

The sound of splashing coming from behind her made her look around. A tall slim lady wearing a simple white linen dress was standing at the fountain, sprinkling water over her face. Ossandra had been concentrating on the game so hard that she had not noticed the stranger approaching.

“Ooh, isn't she pretty!” she murmured. Ossandra was a bright little girl of eleven cycles and she always studied newcomers when they turned up in Milltown, trying to deduce where they were from and work out what made them different from the villagers. She was the burgomaster's daughter and as such she considered this her duty.

Getting to her feet, she went over to the woman and stood with her hands behind her back, observing closely, but not really able to believe that anyone could be quite so beautiful. The lady's white hair had a special shimmer to it and Ossandra felt ugly and clumsy in comparison, even if her parents always said she had a nice little face.

It was quiet around the fountain. Her friends had gone back to their game and the market stalls had all been packed away by midday. With most of the inhabitants working in the mills down by the river, or in the fields, bringing in the last of the harvest, the black and white half-timbered houses were all pretty much empty at this hour. Nobody was paying any attention to her.

“Are you a goddess?” she blurted out.

The woman ran damp fingers through her hair, which had ornaments of gems and fine bone carvings in it. Her ears, occasionally visible between the strands of hair, were pointed. She was carrying a shoulder bag with her belongings. “No, I'm no goddess, little one. My name is Horgàta and I am—”

“Oh, look! It's an elf!” Mollo shouted. The others abandoned their game and came over. “There's an elf sitting on our fountain!”

“Shut up, idiot!” Gatiela snapped. “You'll frighten her off.”

Ossandra saw there was no dust on the stranger's dress, or on her travel bag. “You can't have come very far. You're all clean, not like the other visitors who come to Milltown.” Her friends gathered around like a flock of nosy lambs.

“Well observed, little barbarian.”

The others pointed at Ossandra, laughing.

“I am not a barbarian,” she retorted. She no longer found Horgàta pretty at all. There was a hard, cruel line around her mouth and her eyes were cold. “I am Ossandra and I am the daughter of the burgomaster. If
you wish to speak to my father perhaps you should be politer to me. He does not make time to see just anyone, you know.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the elf replied, bowing. “There was no way I could have guessed that I was in the presence of a noblewoman.” She surveyed the group. “How many children live here in Milltown?”

“Loads of us,” said Mollo. “Why?”

“You got presents?” probed Sarmatt. “There'd be enough for just us, wouldn't there?”

Ossandra studied Horgàta carefully and deduced that the boots poking out from under the white dress were not those of someone who did a lot of walking. She had seen that shape of shoe on the king's mounted brigade when they rode into town now and then to get food for the fortress. “Did your horse die?”

“Why would you—?” Horgàta looked down at the tips of her boots. “You really are a clever little thing.” Her laugh was clear and friendly. She stretched out her arm and touched Ossandra's cheek. “Yes, I lost my horse on the journey. I wonder if I'll be able to get a new one here?”

Her voice sounded cold and Ossandra did not like it. Horgàta was not like the elves she had imagined. In all the old stories elves were magnificent and radiated kindness, warming human hearts with their presence. Despite this, Ossandra found her completely fascinating.

Mollo piped up: “My father has horses for sale, but the burgomaster hasn't!”

“Don't you ride unicorns?” Gatiela put her head on one side, her brown braids slipping over her shoulder. “I thought elves and unicorns were friends?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't find a unicorn,” said Horgàta, putting on a sad face. She opened her bag and took out a little black and white flute with wires connecting to small flaps. The mouthpiece was silver. “I'll let you in on a secret: this is what we use to attract unicorns.”

Ossandra had never seen an instrument like that before, but she could see it had been fashioned from a piece of bone. “What animal has bones like that?”

“Perhaps it's a unicorn bone.” Horgàta put the flute to her lips and played a tune.

The very first tones mesmerized the fair-haired young girl. Her thoughts stood still and the world around her disappeared. All she could do was stare at the elf and listen, listen,
listen
.

The song had no words, but it told a story of a man and a woman who loved each other. Then a terrible warrior turned up with a dragon, demanding the woman follow him. He took the woman, but her lover collected as many men as would support him and they set off to storm the evil warrior's castle . . .

The song finished with a vibrato sound that had Ossandra weeping.

“No!” The girl was disappointed. “Tell me how the fight ended! They've got to live happily ever after and have lots of children and—” She heard voices and looked around.

The market square was full to bursting with townspeople. The elf's playing had enticed them all away from the fields and the mills. Their faces showed trance-like expressions as they stared at Horgàta, but Ossandra could see them coming slowly back to reality. And they all seemed just as upset as she was.

Horgàta put the instrument down. “I am glad you liked it.” She scooped up some fresh water and sipped it out of the palm of her hand while the audience, young and old, applauded her performance. Leaping gracefully up onto he wall of the fountain so that everyone could see her, she addressed them. “Kind barbarians of Milltown,” she called, sounding like one of the royal heralds. “My name is Horgàta and I have come a long, long way to ask for your help with a special task.” She pointed at the quarry with her flute. “My people have an army that needs to hide in your cavern up there. It has to be kept a secret. They can't be seen by anyone—man, woman or child—who is not from your town.”

Ossandra thought it was time to go and get her father. She pushed her way through the crowd and hurried through the alleyways.

“Father!” she shouted as soon as she got to the door. “Father, come quick! There's an elf!” She located her father in the council chamber
with a stack of papers and pile of coins in front of him. He had been working out the tithes due to the king. “Her name is Horgàta and she's been playing her flute—”

He raised his finger and she stopped speaking. Ossandra knew this gesture well. It meant “Just a minute, I'll be with you soon.”

It was hard for her to keep quiet, so she danced around on the spot. This earned her a warning look.

“What have you thought up this time, Daughter?” her father asked in his soft, calm voice.

“I haven't made up the elf. She is there at the fountain! And she plays the flute. It's really lovely, and all the people—” Ossandra went over to the window and opened it. You could hear the elf addressing the crowd and the sound of footsteps hurrying past the house to get to the marketplace.

Ossandra's father stood up and came over to where she was, looked out and saw how many people were there. “Why didn't they come and get me?” he grumbled, giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. “What a good thing I've got you!” He unhooked his burgomaster chain from its place beside the door and put on his feathered cap and ceremonial black robe.

He walked to the fountain with Ossandra, where Horgàta was still making her speech. People made way for the burgomaster and his daughter.

“Here's my father!” Ossandra called out, pushing him forward.

The elf turned her gaze on him. “Ah, so you are responsible for what happens to Milltown and its people?”

“I am Welkar Ilmanson. I am honored and at the same time surprised to see an elf in our town. The Beings of Light have never visited us before.”

She stretched out her hand and pulled him up to stand next to her on the edge of the fountain. “I was just telling everyone that the elves need your help.” She swiftly repeated that the cavern had to be completely emptied so that the army could move in and make camp there. “It is a great task.”