Devastating Hate (27 page)

In the name of infamy! How could this happen?
Téndalor and his crew were now the only älfar defending the section between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris. All the other island fortresses had been razed to the ground or were too badly damaged to function. The island under his command, bastion number one-eight-seven, had had its fair share of strikes, but at least the walls were still intact, and in the intervals between bombardment, supplies arrived via the Dsôn bridge, so they had plenty of ammunition.

One of his female comrades, Daraïs, appeared at his side. “Benàmoi, the troops for the decoy attack have arrived. When the sun is overhead we are to let down the bridge to Ishím Voróo.”

Téndalor turned to the Dsôn side of the river, where the army the Inextinguishables had sent were assembled. He had expected warriors on night-mares and fire-bulls, but judging by their postures and the size of their mounts, it was obvious these fighters were only humans disguised as älfar. “Where on earth did they drum those up?”

“Slaves wanting a bit of advancement with their masters,” answered Daraïs.

So we've got armored slaves and they're sitting on horses and oxen in war paint.
The Inextinguishables did not want to risk genuine älfar lives on a frontal attack on the dorón ashont. He could not control his amusement.

Daraïs smiled with him. “I'd like to bet they won't reach the other side of the cleared strip. Or the enemy catapults.”

“Just as long as they win a bit of time for our own warriors.” Téndalor signaled for the bridge to Dsôn Faïmon to be lowered. The sorry crowd of pretend warriors trooped onto the island. There were fewer than
fifty real älfar among them driving the barbarian slaves on, encouraging them to believe they might actually survive the mission they had volunteered for.

But they won't, of course.
Téndalor looked toward Ishím Voróo again.
None of them will come back.

The dorón ashont had set up camp on the banks, out of range of the heavy älfar catapults. After the island fortresses to the right and the left of one-eight-seven had been put out of action, there was nothing to deter the enemy from entering the tree-free area.

Téndalor was proud of the accuracy of his catapult crews, which had ensured that his own fortress had not shared the fate of the neighboring islands. He put his trust in his god, Fadhasi. “We shall be granted the sight of our mythical adversaries being defeated for the second time in history.”

He had heard that the Inextinguishables had ordered a foray. The main body was in the west, marching into Ishím Voróo and circling behind the dorón ashont, while the barbarian troops here provided a distraction. Téndalor would give the barbarians covering fire, but that was all he was prepared to do.
They're only slaves, after all.

He watched the false älfar troops ride over the first of the two drawbridges. He could hear their laughter and could see the smiles on their ugly faces.
They really do think they're going to be victorious.
“Get the catapults ready and lower the second bridge,” he commanded.

The chains clattered as they were slowly released, allowing the wooden platform to swing down.

The odd collection of soldiers advanced, sweeping through the courtyard and stepping onto the bridge even before it was completely level with the ground.

“Death can't come to them soon enough, it seems,” said Daraïs cheerfully.

“Who knows what they've been promised?” Unobserved, Téndalor touched the Fadhasi rune he had carved.
Give us the strength to destroy this enemy once and for all!

The body of human soldiers were now in Ishím Voróo, dividing in two with the intention of attacking the enemy camps to the right
and the left of fortress one-eight-seven. With almost childish enthusiasm they raced off at a gallop with weapons drawn. The genuine älfar warriors among them fell back and remained near the drawbridge. They had done their duty and had no wish to go down in a hail of stones.

The dorón ashont had long since seen the attack coming and had put their defense lines of huge warriors in place. Their catapults hurled stones the size of óarco heads at the attackers. The salvoes came in waves, tearing great gaps in the slaves' ranks. Barbarians, horses and oxen died in the bombardment.

They're only concentrating on one direction.
Téndalor looked west where the authentic älfar army was scheduled to appear. There was a dust cloud in the distance.
That'll be them! This will be the end of the dorón ashont!

At that point something strange occurred: the giant creatures, who had so recently formed a protective phalanx to counter the mounted troops, all pulled back. One by one they turned tail and sought shelter in their camp.

“We've taken them by surprise! They weren't ready for us!” Téndalor clenched a fist in triumph and took out a spy-tube to watch their destruction.

Daraïs laughed. “We'll give them something to be afraid of!”

The true älfar warriors charged through the opposition's camp, showering the canvas shelters with arrows before overturning the tents or setting fire to them.

Then the earth swallowed many of the night-mares and their riders.

The advancing army hastily came to a standstill.

Téndalor hastily placed the spy-tube to his eye. “The dorón ashont have excavated.” Téndalor told Daraïs what he could see. “They must have known what was coming—” He heard a loud noise and then the clatter of weapons, quite close to where he stood.

“Benàmoi! They're on the drawbridge!” yelled Daraïs. “They're on the bridge!”

“Who's on—?” Téndalor put down the tube and turned.

Not ten paces from the bank a hole had opened up in the earth. Dorón ashont were surging out of it.

The älfar warriors who had been waiting at the end of the drawbridge lay dead next to their slaughtered mounts. The hate-fueled enemy had trodden them into the ground with their iron shoes.

“Catapults, fire!” Téndalor could not grasp the fact that the enemy were already so close to the fortress, running swift as the wind in spite of their size and the weight of their armor. It looked as if the ground were giving birth to this teeming throng. “Get the drawbridge up!”

Daraïs had gone white. “By all the infamous ones! They've dug a tunnel!”

A salvo of arrows flew toward the dorón ashont, but could find no purchase on their long, studded shields. Not a single enemy soldier died. The timbers of the bridge groaned under the stampede.

The winches jammed and the drawbridge stopped rising.

Another ten paces and they'll be here!
“Keep turning! What are you doing?” Téndalor shouted to the bridge crew.

“It won't budge!” Daraïs reported. “Look over there!”

The weight of the dorón ashont forced the bridge downward. The älfar could not possibly close off access to Ishím Voróo.
No!
His gaze swept the battlements. “Get into the courtyard!” he ordered those manning the catapults. “Hold the gate and get the second drawbridge up. When you've done that, destroy the capstans so they—”

A sudden draft touched his hair and something heavy flew overhead to land with a thud just behind where he stood. Purple light exploded around him and a deafening thunder set all his limbs aquiver. Ice-cold fear overtook him.

Daraïs screamed and drew her swords.

Fadhasi, don't forsake me!
Téndalor turned and drew his own weapon. All he could see was a wall of iron: an excellently forged set of armor covered with ornaments and symbols—and a metal gauntlet wielding a mighty war hammer aimed at his midriff.

Téndalor bounded back and tried to ward off the blow, but he had underestimated both the force and the range at his adversary's disposal: his sword was struck out of his hand by the shaft of the hammer and the weapon's head struck him on the side of his body, hurling him against the parapet as if he had been a cloth doll.

Téndalor felt a sudden pain in his chest as he struggled to breathe. He slipped down onto the floor, his left hand reaching for the Fadhasi rune on the stone wall.
Where is the support I prayed for?
The walkway was teeming with dorón ashont. His own men were being slaughtered piecemeal. The älfar armor might as well have been made of paper.

A vertical sword-strike split Daraïs from the helmet down. One half of her toppled over into the courtyard while the other fell onto the walkway. A blow from an ax took off an älf's right side; another älf lost his face to a spiked gauntlet.

No army can defeat the dorón ashont!
Fighting for breath, Téndalor lifted his head to examine his own injuries. The hammer had crushed his left side, halving the size of his chest. There was blood splattered all over his protective harness and his shoulder had been totally destroyed.

I must . . .
Téndalor tried to get up, but his feet kept slipping on the stone floor.
Warn Wèlèron . . .

A blackened helmet filled his vision, and from behind the death's head visor, a pair of purple eyes stared at him fixedly. Téndalor could hear a growling noise, directed only at him.

Rîm's husband?

“I don't understand you, you freak!” he groaned, desperate for breath.

He was grabbed by the nape of the neck and held up in the air, so that he could see that the bridge to Dsôn Faïmon remained lowered.

“What are you doing?” he groaned. Then he was swung around and forced to look in the direction of Ishím Voróo. The älfar warriors there charged toward island fortress one-eight-seven.
Fadhasi, I beg you: send a miracle!

All of the attacking dorón ashont had crossed the bridge and now they pulled the drawbridge to Ishím Voróo back up.

Téndalor realized that the dorón ashont had managed to acquaint themselves with the island's catapult mechanisms. They sent showers of arrows down on the älfar, killing dozens.

The älfar were forced to retreat. The division manned by slaves in disguise was long gone. His dying eyes took in the sight of the bridge to Ishím Voróo, still standing vertical. No one could cross. “In the name of Fadhasi, I curse you—” he gasped.

The dorón ashont hurled him away.

Téndalor followed a high arc. For a moment the flight was peaceful, then he splashed down in the defense moat and he realized that, for the first time in many hundreds of divisions of unendingness, an enemy foot had touched the soil of his homeland.

And he would not be in any position to prevent Dsôn's defilement.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains,

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

early winter.

Have I been here before?
Simin had only been able to penetrate the complex tunnel systems of the Gray Mountains because the älfar had put some idiot orcs on watch. He had only needed to use a smidgeon of magic to escape the orcs' sharp eyes. But now he was wandering fruitlessly through the underground passages.

The magus had been struck by the orcs' build: the ones he had seen here were broader and taller than the local version. They would present quite a challenge to the soldiers of Girdlegard.

How do I go about finding a mist-demon in an underground kingdom when I have absolutely no idea how big the place is?
The dwarves might have permitted travelers to pass through, but had never given away their secrets and had certainly never made a map he knew of.

Simin's only hope was to find some clue as to the whereabouts of this demon and follow a trail.

Have I been this way before?
He looked carefully at the junction he had arrived at.
No.
There were dwarf runes scratched on the wall, but other symbols had been painted over the top in yellow. Simin supposed the new markings were intended to help the occupying force find its way around. For him, it was getting more and more like finding his way through an ant heap.

He was despondent and very alone.

You'll have to think of something! He looked down the separate tunnels. Perhaps this way?

He had found out that the various creatures were kept strictly isolated from each other. The main contingent of the army was already in Girdlegard proper, but many small units had remained behind to secure the conquered territory in the mountains.

He had quickly lost all sense of how time was passing. He rested whenever he felt tired and carried on his search as soon as he woke.

In many of the deeper-lying areas of the old dwarf kingdom the temperatures were nice and warm. He would not die of cold and he would not starve to death because he stole food along the way. Most of it was tolerable enough—a kind of ground meal that he mixed with water. He had not touched the dried meat.

You know what? I
have
been here before.
He stopped, hearing steps coming toward him.

Swiftly he started to climb the wall, pulling himself up by handholds in the carvings. He found a cleft in the rock he was able to squeeze into and hide.

Before long a whole division of human soldiers marched past. They had weapons and knapsacks and their furs had a fresh layer of snow on the shoulders.

More returnees.
Simin had already noticed some of the tribes going back to their homeland. He understood enough of what they were saying to work out that a lot of them had not exactly volunteered of their own free will. More and more of these groups were sloping off, disappointed by what they had seen of Girdlegard.
This group looks like they're doing the same thing
.

Simin waited until they were far enough away before he crept out of his hiding place.

He wiped the dirt off his hands.
I've been cleaner. And I know I've smelled better before now.
But he realized that the scent of soap would instantly give him away.

He sighed.
I've taken on far too much. I'm never going to find the demon like this.