Devastating Hate (24 page)

The arrow struck him in the throat. At the same time a flaming blue sphere the size of a cow's head appeared from between his fingers and hissed its way across the gap toward their enemies.

“Master!” Famenia sprang over to Simin and caught him as he fell. The arrow had pierced his larynx, but had missed the neck vertebrae. His eyes were wide open and he tried in vain to speak.

A clap of thunder sounded from the opposite side of the mountain.

Famenia glanced back over her shoulder and saw blue flames where the älf and the orcs had been standing. Fire danced over the rock, growing in intensity; their enemies turned to ashes in its wake or tumbled into the depths.
They can't hurt us now!

She pulled the bloody tip of the arrow off and then attempted to remove the shaft. She concentrated on the only healing charm that Jujulo had taught her. Simin's blood flowed warm and red from the wound on his neck.

The amulet on her breast grew warm, releasing energy. Magic could not normally be stored unless it were in the body of a magus or maga, but Jujulo had dedicated his life to finding a way to instill magic power into certain alloys. His research came to Simin's assistance now.

As Famenia watched, the wounds stopped bleeding and closed over.
Keep it up! I have to be sure!
She redoubled her efforts, although it caused her to feel slightly giddy.

Four heartbeats later the magus spluttered and took a breath. He grabbed Famenia's arm. “Thank you,” he said, sitting up. “Jujulo was correct in choosing you.” His fingers brushed the healed wounds in his throat while he stared at Ortina's dead body. “Ye gods, how could they?” His voice was thick with fury and grief. Rubbing his eyes, he wiped away tears.

“What now?” Famenia was at a loss. She felt sick to the stomach. Numbness overwhelmed her. All her strength had dissipated. The spell had taken its toll.

“We can't . . . take her with us.” Simin got to his feet. “Help me to cover her body with stones—we will make a grave for her. When we have won the battle against evil we can return and bury her with all honor.” Simin looked over toward the gateway that led into the Gray Mountains. “They will have noticed my spell. We'd better be quick.”

“What will happen now?” she repeated. “I mean, to our plans?”

Simin worked quickly in creating the grave, the wind making his robe flap about him. “We stick to what we discussed. I'll head into the mountains.” He looked at her with a serious expression. “You now have two tasks: call the magi together and then go to the leaders of the kingdoms.” He removed a ring from his finger and pressed it into Famenia's hand. “Keep this and show it when you enter my enchanted realm. You will be given everything you need. Take the best horses—you'll need a spare and one for your luggage.” He placed a final stone on Ortina's resting-place. “Let us go.”

It took a breath or two for Famenia's legs to start obeying her. She stepped past the grave, hoping she would not share her fate.

The famula had become a maga, with a heavier burden on her shoulders than she could ever have imagined.
I should call myself Famenia the Tested.

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, radial arm Wèlèron,

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

late autumn.

“What are you saying?” Arviû had to pull himself together. Rage sent fine black lines zigzagging across his face; he could feel the pull of them on his skin. He sat there unable to see anything at all. Except the dark.

“You are lucky to be alive,” a female healer said. He had forgotten her name, just as he had forgotten most small facts since being hit on the head. His memory had functioned excellently up until the Golden Plain battle—but after that point . . . “We opened up your skull and were able to take out lots of shrapnel. We were able to save your eyes—”

“So why can't I see anything?” he yelled, digging his fingers into the sheet. “What use are my eyes if they won't show me anything?”

“We don't know the answer to that,” she said. “It could be that a fragment entered your brain and is still lodged in the part that is the seat of vision. We are afraid that if we undertake a further investigation you could suffer more serious damage.”

“Or maybe it's the after effects of the blow to the head.” This voice was a male. “To be honest, you can see that we—I mean, we are at a loss.”

Arviû had noticed the älf backtracking in the middle of the sentence. He uttered a loud, long cry, as if to drive away the darkness that enveloped him. There was no pain or weakness—the only thing was this blindness. He wanted to get back to Tark Draan and punish the elves for what they had done to him—but a blind archer?
What use am I now?

He tried to relax. He lifted a hand to touch his face, located his eyes and discovered that they were open.

But when his fingertips touched them he could not feel anything. The eyelids did not even close instinctively.

Arviû gave another shout of anger and helplessness.

“We'll give you a potion to calm you,” said the female. He felt her put her hand on his chest. “Give yourself some time. You have time enough to spare. Maybe your sight will return.”

A drinking vessel was placed at his lips. He swallowed the sweet liquid and after five breaths he felt in less turmoil.

In place of fury came implacable hatred: hatred of the elves. Hatred such as he had never known before: destructive, deep-seated, demanding. “Where am I to be taken?”

“You are still in Wèlèron, in Ertrimar's infirmary.”

Arviû turned his face away. “I keep forgetting,” he whispered.
Ye infamous ones, those splinters have bored into my memory and made it like a sieve!
“Leave me.”

“As you wish,” said the male älf. “There's a bell on the table next to your bed. If you need anything, ring.”

He heard their steps retreating and a door opening and closing, then it was silent.
If I need anything
 . . .
Of course I need something! Can't they give me some new eyes?

Arviû knew the healers were good at what they did, but apparently his case was beyond them.

In his mind's eye he saw the armored elf swinging the broken lance and striking him. He heard the sounds of battle, the horses and night-mares neighing . . . He could remember all those details—but now he was staring into a dark abyss.

I must have my revenge, or I shall have no peace until I enter endingness!
Arviû clenched his fists.
I shall make the elves pay. I'll slaughter them!

And it suddenly occurred to him how he might achieve this end.

The Inextinguishables had sightless confidants who had volunteered to be blinded so they would not go insane upon beholding the Sibling Rulers. These älfar were held to be the best warriors; they used their hearing to find their way about. The slightest rustle or clink told them where their adversary was standing—they could defeat sighted soldiers.

I wonder if I can achieve that same perfection with my archery skills?
Arviû was doubtful about applying that same standard to himself. He would have to train his sense of hearing to the utmost degree if he was going to detect a potential target at a distance of 500 paces, let alone the 2,000 he had been able to cover before. There would be distracting sounds from the environment, wind, voices . . .
No, I'll never be able to do it!

That's over with. That's the past.
His hatred of the elves boiled up again, negating the beneficial effects of the potion he had been given.
They have taken what was most precious to me: what made me unique. No one in Dsôn Faïmon could rival my archery skills. Nobody in Dsôn and no creature in Ishím Voróo or in Tark Draan!

A strangled cry issued from Arviû's throat, but it gave him no relief. The urgent wish to bring cruel death to the elves grew and grew.

I will blind them! I want them to suffer what I suffer. I'll blind them and turn them out into the wilderness as target practice. I'll enjoy hunting down that quarry. All the fairer if huntsman and prey alike have no sight!

The idea settled firmly in his mind.
The Inextinguishables' coterie must teach me how to fight without sight.
He felt for the bell and rang it. He would achieve what the blind bodyguard had—mastery over the darkness.

Something else struck him as he was ringing the bell.

The door opened. “You rang, master?”

A slave! So I could try.
Quick as a flash he hurled the bell in the direction of the voice.

The slave grunted; the bell tinkled as it fell to the floor. “What did I do to deserve that, master?”

“Where did I hit you?”

“On my nose, master.”

“Curses! I was aiming at your mouth.” But Arviû was pleased with himself. He had not lost much of his accuracy.
I shall have a set of knives made. Virssagòn can do that. They'll have blades sharp enough to give my victims slashing wounds if I even catch them with a glancing throw.
“Help me get dressed. I don't know where they've put my clothes. We are going to Dsôn. To the Bone Tower.”

“Yes, master.”

He swung his legs off the bed and felt a sudden surge of confidence. “And bring the bell.”

“Of course, master.”

The slave helped Arviû into a silken robe. It was apparently one of his own that his two daughters had brought in.

He felt the ornamental border on the sleeves. The fabric bore a perfume he recognized as his elder daughter's, Parnôri's. It touched him to think she had been looking after him although she lived so far away.
Both daughters had chosen the life of rural estate owner in Shiimal and had nothing to do with the military life. At first this had been a source of regret to him, but now . . .
I could go and live with Parnôri until I—

“Forgive me, master. But have you not heard about the mysterious sickness? The whole of Dsôn is in upheaval. Many of the citizens from the capital have fled to the countryside. It may not be a good time to travel.”

Arviû's train of thought was interrupted by the slave's words. “Since when have the älfar ever feared illness and disease?” he asked patronizingly.

“I know your race is particularly resistant to disease, master, and I am full of admiration,” the human replied as he helped Arviû into his boots. “There seems, however, to be a new illness that leaves the healers puzzled.”

Arviû would not normally pay any attention to barbarian rumors, but the man sounded genuine in his concern. “It's only älfar getting sick?”

“Yes, master.”

Arviû stood up and walked toward the door with his hand on the slave's shoulder. It was humiliating to be led in this fashion, but it was unavoidable. When the warriors in the Bone Tower had trained him, he would be independent, of course. “Tell me what has been happening.”

“It began forty moments of unendingness ago. An älf by the name of Arganaï was the very first victim. He had been taken captive by the dorón ashont but managed to get away to warn Dsôn. He was found one morning in his quarters. It's said his whole body had burst open. His intestines were completely destroyed, as if they had been sprayed with acid. Some other älfar died soon after that, in exactly the same way.”

“These others, where were they from?”

“They were guards like he was and they had shared rooms. Then the illness spread. There seems to be no stopping it.”

They had arrived at the stables, as Arviû realized from the smell and the noises.

“Wait here, master. I'll put the horse in the shafts.”

“But carry on with what you're telling me.” Arviû removed his hand from the slave's shoulder. He abhorred this feeling of utter helplessness.
I was the best archer in the land and now I'm no better than an infant.

“I'm afraid that's all I know,” the slave said as he put the horse in harness. “I only know that Wèlèron's healing experts remain confused. As slaves, of course, we don't get told the details.”

“So it began with that älf . . . ?”
This confounded memory problem.

“Yes, Arganaï. He lost an arm during his escape, but still managed to fight his way across Ishím Voróo and past enemy lines. And then to pass into endingness like that . . . Nobody deserves to die that way. He must have suffered terribly.” There came the sound of wheels turning.

“He can't really have suffered much, or wouldn't his comrades have come running?” objected Arviû.
This slave could be pulling all kinds of faces and making fun of me and I wouldn't notice.
“Or perhaps it attacked his lungs first, so he couldn't cry out.” Hearing the name dorón ashont reminded Arviû of what the two healers had been talking about at his bedside: monsters that had attacked the border between the radial arms of Wèlèron and Avaris, but he had forgotten how the rest of the story went. “And what's happening in the north?”

“You mean where the dorón ashont attacked, master?”

“What else could I mean?”

Steps approached him again.

“The empire is safe, but in Wèlèron three of the defense islands had their fortresses badly damaged by enemy catapult fire. They were taken by surprise. No one had thought the dorón ashont capable of building such powerful machines.” It hadn't escaped Arviû that the slave sounded quite glad about these events. Either he was not able to conceal his feelings or he did not want to.

Arviû was concerned.
Could this be the seed from which rebellion might grow?
“I am blind, but not deaf,” he said coldly. “Don't think that you will profit in any way if we lose. And, of course, we won't lose.”

“But I would never think like that, master,” the slave said indignantly.

“What is happening at the northern part of the defense canal?”

“The Inextinguishables have had the damaged fortresses repaired as far as possible, but they are still being bombarded. The enemy hasn't made it as far as the canal yet. They are kept in check at the edge of the cleared area by the älfar catapults.”

Arviû was pleased to hear that. “They will never get over to Wèlèron,” he said. “Are you nearly ready? I'm keen to leave today.”

“I'm nearly done, master. May I take your hand to help you up?”

Arviû stretched out his arm and his hand was grasped. He was soon seated in the wagon: a small one with a seat for two passengers and one for the driver.

Their journey began.

Arviû pulled the curtains at the side window shut to prevent anyone seeing him.
I won't show myself until I'm a champion warrior again.

He thought about the dorón ashont. He cursed his loss of sight—when did one ever get the opportunity to witness the second downfall of a race? He only knew about the first defeat from the old legends.
Poisoned.
He smiled.
They were so easy to defeat. This time it will be more difficult.
The älfar only knew about danger because of . . .

“What was his name?”

“Whose name, master?”

“The älf who escaped!”

“Arganaï, master.”

“A true hero.” In his thoughts he was already in the Bone Tower and talking to the blind bodyguards about some training.

After that, Tark Draan was waiting for him!

I shall practice and practice until I drop with exhaustion, and as soon as I wake up I'll practice some more. There is no time at all to lose if there are to be any enemies left for me to slay!

“Master, I'll let you know when we are near Dsôn. Because of the sickness, you know.”

Burst open and putrefying.
“You would think, perhaps, he caught something in the dorón ashonts' prison. Perhaps it was that,” mumbled Arviû. He tried to discover as much as he could about his immediate environment, listening carefully to any sounds that arose. His hearing was to become his most vital sense.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), far to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,

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

late autumn.

Doghosh of Ligard stood on the battlements of the highest tower of the third and outermost defense wall of the town of Sonnenhag.

The commander surveyed the incredible army encamped at his walls with some concern. The troops were composed of monsters in numbers he had never seen before. The humans would never be able to sneak out alive, and there was no way to bring relief troops or further supplies in. They were under siege.
But we've got enough to keep us going through the winter.