Devastating Hate (26 page)

The horse leaped the barrier of the burning ditch and crashed into the wall, which yielded under the impact, bringing down the other sections of the fortifications as it collapsed with a thunderous noise. It fell straight down onto the besieging orcs.

“Yes!” shouted Doghosh in relief as he struggled to his feet. His right leg was painful, but he had sustained no other injury. “Thank you, gods!”

A 300-pace portion of the town wall had gone. Those orcs who had already stormed the battlements found themselves hurtling down onto
their own ranks. Some jumped clear only to be shot down by the Sonnenhag bowmen or to fall onto the burning pitch.

It's worked!
Bellows of terror came from the other side of the wall as the enemy force saw their vanguard pulverized by the stone blocks. Siege ladders crashed down onto the enemy lines and the careering stones rolled back through the mass of horrified monsters.

Doghosh exulted as the last sections of the falling masonry smashed down, squashing the throng of beasts and sending up clouds of dust.

Endrawolt cantered up and pulled his commander up behind him. “The men are running back, sir. Let's not give the orcs a target for their anger!”

The two of them rode straight for the gate, men running before them, away from the rubble they had created. Archers on the second wall gave covering fire.

I wonder how our side have fared?
Doghosh risked a glance over his shoulder.

The first orcs who had escaped the collapsing wall were leaping out of dark brown clouds and thick smoke. Some had injuries seeping green blood where smaller stones had gashed them. They looked horrific with their painted tusks, fat-smeared armor and enormous crude weaponry. They no longer had any discernible battle plan; snorting and snarling, they were hunting down the humans like animals.

They are so set on killing us they've forgotten about our archers
. As long as none of his own men tripped and fell, they should all reach safety. Nobody need be left behind.

Endrawolt was riding through the gap between the opening gates.

I am the commander.
Doghosh slid down from the horse and stayed back, sword and shield at the ready, until every single one of his men had run through.
Now I can go through!

“Commander!” Endrawolt shouted. “What are you doing? Get in here!”

“I'm coming!”

The orcs stormed nearer.

Doghosh took the scene in. He wanted to remember every detail for his report to the king.

The beasts forged a path to him, fixing him with their beady little eyes, their muscular legs pumping tirelessly as they covered the ground, sharp, predator teeth on display as their broad mouths hung open. One of the monsters was struck three times by arrows before it keeled over, but its fellows marched straight over the obstacle of its carcass without a second glance. Their armor rattled as they sprang.

There's no way these orcs are from Girdlegard!

One of the beasts hurled an ax at him.

He dodged and the ax embedded itself deep into the wood of the gate. If he had tried to take the ax on his shield it would have gone straight through and he'd have lost an arm.

What creatures!
His heart pounded suddenly with fear and he hurried in to safety.
Tion has sent his worst creations to attack us!

The gates closed on the orcs, leaving them on the outside.

For now.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), south of the Gray Mountains, Enchanted Realm of Hiannorum,

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

late autumn.

Morana finished the piece she was playing on her death's head flute and put it away. She was riding downhill along a broad valley toward an oddly shaped building—her destination. To her right a high waterfall cascaded into a river. Clouds of spray floated in the air, dampening the blood-red roof tiles so that they shone like gems under the setting autumn sun.

This looks like the sort of house you would find in Dsôn!
Its three elegant towers of various heights were connected at a number of levels by delicately carved bridges. Staircases wound around the outside, protected from the elements by glass, and the walls were covered in ivy and climbing roses. The daystar sent the last of its golden rays over the brow of the hill, bathing the three buildings in warm, shimmering light.

Morana had to admit that it appealed to her.

The valley itself had been expertly transformed into a delightful garden. Every bush, every shrub and every tree had been precisely trimmed and decorated with strips of bunting and ribbons that wafted prettily in the breeze.

Statues were displayed picturesquely. Small fountains and burbling streams adorned the scene.

She saw stone benches and garden tables where women were seated, reading or talking, while others played ball. The resident enchantress was living up to her name: Flawless.

By all the gods of infamy! This is almost classier than our royal palace!
Morana admired how clean and tidy everything was. But she did find it . . . cloying.
Too much honey, too much decoration and not enough
real
art. When you think what they could have made of this valley! I should ask the nostàroi to let me redesign it.

But the mere thought of asking Caphalor any favors went against the grain. She had not forgotten his behavior at their last meeting.

People had noticed her. The ladies put down their books and stared. A man up on the highest of the three towers banged a gong. Its round, rich tone rolled across the valley to announce the visitor.

Morana did not mind. On the contrary, it suited her plans.

She was already wearing her black armor and knew that she stood out in the midst of all the frippery. But her own native gracefulness trumped any barbarian.

She rode across the valley floor, heading straight for the towers.

As she drew closer, she began to make out the mosaics on the walls. They all showed the same female form: a woman carrying out various activities; brushing her hair, looking at herself in a mirror, handing out gifts of food to the poor. She could see labels in elegant writing by each of the pictures.

She did not understand everything, but they were all praising Hianna the Flawless for her beauty, wisdom and generosity.

How very modest.
Morana's mouth curved into a small smile and she slowed the horse to a walk as she approached the nearest of the towers.
If she were stupid, would they praise her for that as well?

A woman stepped out. At first glance Morana thought she might be an älf; she was tall and slim, with finely chiseled features and long blond hair that fell over her high-collared red dress. She wore gold filigree at her throat, golden rings on her fingers and a silver coronet studded with diamonds in her hair.

“Greeting,” she said warmly. Her outspread arms and her smile would have melted the heart of a rampaging óarco. “I am Hianna the Flawless, mistress of Hiannorum.” She placed her hands together, “You are welcome as my guest, a welcome happily extended for one so graceful.”

Morana was itching to draw one of her weapons. She studied the maga's ears suspiciously.
Round, not pointed. So she's not an elf.
She sketched a slight bow. “My name is Morana and I have come a long way to see you.” She halted her horse and jumped lightly to the ground in front of Hianna.

The first of the ladies from the garden hurried up, but kept a respectful distance while they stared at the visitor in her dark and warlike attire.

“Oh, a messenger?”

“More of a negotiator.”

Hianna was still smiling. She raised her linked hands and pointed both index fingers at the älf visitor. “You have piqued my curiosity, Morana. You are no elf, though you have their grace and elegance.” She looked Morana directly in the eyes. “Black. Strange, but attractive in its own way.” She passed
her tongue over her lips. “You will be tired after your journey.” The maga moved aside and invited her into the tower. “I'll have you shown to a room where you can bathe and be given fresh clothes. We can talk at supper.”

That sounded more like a command than an offer.
“Very kind of you.” One of the girls came over and took her horse's bridle.

Morana entered the tower, taking her surroundings in watchfully, wary of danger. A cautious nature was the mother of a long life.

A famula in a deep yellow dress walked past her to a narrow shaft bathed in shimmering blue light.

“You may follow Iula to the guest room,” Hianna said.

“Come,” said Iula. “It's quite safe. Don't worry. We would never hurt a guest.”

It may be a trap
. Despite her unease, Morana let the famula lead her into the circle of blue light. She felt a tingling all over her body as invisible forces took her up through the shaft. “Magic!” she exclaimed although, of course, in an enchanted land this was only to be expected.

“Yes, kept in permanent readiness by means of the mistress's spell,” Iula explained. “The spell is fed by our force field, so there is no reason to worry it might lose energy and drop us.” On the way up, Morana saw doors set in alcoves with platforms to step onto; markings on the walls helped to identify the rooms beyond. “If you place one foot on a platform you'll stop going up and can step out safely.” She demonstrated and Morana followed suit. “This is the guest wing.” The door opened onto a corridor. “I'll show you where everything is.”

Morana had noticed Iula studying her features. Iula was, herself, striking enough to break the heart of any barbarian with a bat of an eyelid, but in comparison to an älf she was only tolerably pretty. “Thank you.”

Maids brought a tub to Morana's room and filled it with fragrant warm water. A long black dress was provided for her to wear after her bath.

“Would you, perhaps, like someone to help wash you?” Iula gave the impression she would be more than willing to carry out the task.

“No, thank you. I would rather be alone.”

The famula clapped for the maids to withdraw. “I'll come back for you later. The mistress will be looking forward to dining with you.” She left the room.

Another cozy tête-à-tête.
Morana was reminded of the supper with Caphalor that had gone so very wrong.
If I'm not careful I'll be fighting off the enchantress, too.

She put down her weapons and armor and laid her clothes on a chair before climbing into the water. A selection of fine-scented soaps and soft sponges had been placed by the tub.
Hianna has good taste.

Morana closed her eyes and permitted her thoughts to roam, wondering what the evening held in store.

Her task had been to win new allies for the älfar campaign and she had already secured undertakings from several nobles, barons and earls. Barbarians were easily won over with the promise of gold and the prospect of a share of elf riches, fertile land and good hunting grounds.
Humans are so predictable, but some of them still surprise me.
She remembered the instance of a barbarian fighting off five robbers intent on seizing his wife. Morana had been riding fifty paces off and had followed the action with interest. Outlaws had ambushed a group of travelers and all but this couple had been killed. The man was quite badly injured, but he still tried his best to beat off all comers in order to protect his wife who was cowering at his side, sobbing with fear.

The älf-woman had found this quite memorable: barbarians making sacrifices for love, not payment.

In the end the man had been killed and the robbers had grabbed the distraught woman.

Morana had intervened, slaying the outlaws.

She could still see the blood-smeared features of the woman when she had pressed her partner's sword into her hands with the words: “Learn to fight. Defend your next lover or die with him, but don't you dare cower uselessly at his feet!”

Any of that would have been unthinkable with our people. I could never have stood idly by if someone were attacking my companion.
Morana took a sponge in her hand, soaked it and squeezed water over her head, indulging in the pleasures of the warm bath.

She had come to Hiannorum in search of new support for the cause. It had struck her that a maga known for perfection in all things ought to be easy to win over because her motivations were already known: it
would be easy to find something to tempt her.
I'm sure I could entice her by saying the elves know the secret of beauty. Or I could say we hold the secret and would share it with her. Share it later, of course, after the war.

Slowly, Morana became aware that she was no longer alone. A slight of touch of air on her damp skin betrayed the presence of someone else in the room.

A trap?
She jumped up and catapulted herself out of the tub in a single movement.

As intended, she landed next to her weapons and seized hold of Sun and Moon, ready for action.

She could not see anyone, but someone was there.
I can hear you breathing!
She raised Moon.

“That won't be necessary.” A familiar voice came from the shadows. An älf in black studded armor stepped forward into the light and bowed without averting his eyes. “I should have realized you would know I was there, but I had no idea it was you when I entered the room.” His eyes scanned her body. “And no idea you would not be clothed.” He tossed a towel to her.

Virssagòn!
Morana caught the towel and wrapped herself in it.
I did not hear them sound the gong like when I arrived. Either he's been here all the time or he's just slipped in.
“What are you doing here?”

“No, that's what I get to ask
you
,” he countered, leaning against the four-poster bed.

“I'm here to win Hianna over to our alliance.” She threw her wet hair back and wrung it out. Water coursed down her back to form puddles on the floor. “Having a maga on board would be useful against the elves.”

“That was not your mission.”

“The nostàroi will be pleased—”

“The nostàroi have sent me to Tark Draan to remove all the barbarians who deal in magic. They are a danger to us and their powers far outweigh our own.”

“That's why we need at least one of them on our side,” she insisted.
He just enjoys killing.

He pointed to the window. “How did you think you could induce her to join us? She already has everything she could possibly want. Jewelry, power, magic—”

“She is obsessed with perfection. The barbarians might have thought her flawless, but when they saw me their smiles froze on their faces.” Morana knew she was stretching the truth somewhat, but she wanted to ensure that Virssagòn did not wipe out a potential ally. “If I tell her she could be made as beautiful as an älf—”

“And how would that work?”

“I don't know yet. We're to have dinner together tonight. I'm positive I can reel her in.” Morana looked the warrior full in the eyes. “Give me this chance! If it doesn't work you can always go ahead and kill her.”

Virssagòn considered this, his eyes sweeping over her body, concealed somewhat under the towel but still visible enough. “Agreed,” he said after a slight hesitation. “I shall be there when you talk to her. She won't see me, of course.” He smiled. “You received my gift. Do you know how to use it?”

“I still need practice.” As she spoke, she put on the black dress, placing her armor over the top, and fastening Sun and Moon to the belt on her hip.

Virssagòn smiled. “You can go anywhere dressed like that: out to dinner or off to battle. You look like the pride of the älfar.” He made silently for the door. “I don't know whether or not to wish you luck. It might be good for our campaign if you win, but it would derive me of my fun.” He opened the door and disappeared.

Morana admired her reflection in the mirror.
A good mix: beauty and danger.
She painted a light smudge of soot around her eyes and on the lids to make herself look more sinister.

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

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

late autumn.

“Another one! From the west!” The alarm signal rang out across the courtyard.

Téndalor looked out and caught sight of a black speck arcing down through the air, about to hit the ruins of island fortress number one-eight-four. The workforce attempting to repair the towers began to run.

“It's spot on,” he muttered angrily.
They've got the range exact now.

The missile thudded home, sending the repair towers crashing down. This had been the forty-eighth attempt to get the support platforms up.