Devastating Hate (45 page)

The projectiles from the trebuchets hissed into the air. Gobbets of burning pitch fell on the advancing älfar ranks, throwing up a wall of flame as they hit the ground.

We will defeat our oppressors!
“Come on, there! Keep your courage up!” Jiggon yelled to his troops, then picked up the shield that Ataronz had given him. He did not know where the óarco was, but he wished him luck—and good hunting.

The älfar who had just now been considering a frontal attack on the hedgehog formation turned their night-mares and made straight for the acronta.

This allowed Jiggon a little more flexibility. “Hedgehog! Close ranks! Get closer together. Shields high and move to the right,” he commanded. “Small steps, like Ataronz said—make sure no one trips!”

Slowly but surely, his spiked formation approached the bridge the älfar had come over. He was eager to ensure that no more of the enemy could use it. Women and children were running frantically, trying to get past them and onto the safety of the bridge; they completely ignored his shouted warnings.

Jiggon knew that anyone making it to the far side of the bridge was as good as dead: the älfar reserves were waiting out there in the dark, listening out for the signal.
I'm pretty sure we haven't seen all of them yet.
Now and then he risked a glance over the top of his shield to see how the main battle was progressing.

The älfar had concentrated their entire effort on repulsing the eighty acronta who had come through the hole in the wall. Ten of that number were guarding the gap and the others were heading for the black-eyes in small groups. The badly reduced numbers of Ownerless did not bother them; the acronta were following their own stratagem.

Jiggon had to admit the acronta were dealing out their punishment effectively. Each of them was carrying several weapons, either at their side or on their backs. As they were taller than anyone else on the field of battle, they presented a terrifying sight. They worked their way in a line through the throng of älfar like barbarians wielding scythes through a field of hay. They slammed into their smaller foes with shields and cudgels, or spiked mace-heads the size of a young calf. Any älf in the way would fly a good half dozen paces through the air, smashed to smithereens or cut to pieces.

However, Jiggon also noted that some of the acronta were wounded. A few were limping and others had fallen to their knees, brought down by the constant rain of älfar arrow-fire. Turning to the left, Jiggon saw an acronta felled after receiving ten or so spear thrusts to his upper body. With a supreme effort, the mighty figure dealt death blows to thirty of his adversaries, even while injured and nearing the end. His bright yellow blood coursed from gaping wounds.

“To the bridge!” Jiggon urged his men on. “And then into the middle!”

The soldiers followed his command and marched straight on to the wooden planking, which did not even sway under their weight. When Jiggon signaled to the hedgehog formation to jump, the bridge did not even shake.

He started to doubt their chances of damaging the solid construction. “Curses!” He got one of his people to go down on all fours so he could climb up on his back for a better overview.

There were several fires burning in the Ownerless camp and the flames were spreading fast; the straw used for the soldiers' bedding providing a ready source of fuel.

Forget the tents! After the battle we'll all be able to sleep in our oppressors' palaces.
Jiggon was trying to jolly himself along, but deep inside he was pessimistic. There were twenty acronta still standing on the battlefield
and four of them were attempting to hold the wall breach against an älfar onslaught.

In the flickering light of the flames, Jiggon could see all the dead bodies. Most of them were Ownerless. Dead black-eyes were only to be found in any appreciable numbers where acronta had fallen.

The fighting spirit of the älfar was undimmed. Jiggon observed how they let their sword blades whirl through the air, how they loosed arrow after arrow at the foe, aiming at the visors of the Towers that Walk in order to bring them down with a shot to the eyes. The Army of the Ownerless had been broken up into isolated groups that were being chased through the camp.

We're going to lose! Oh ye gods!
Jiggon felt stupid.
As if it makes any difference whether I can destroy the bridge or not!
He jumped down from his comrade's back. “Run to the defense canal!” he called to his troop, his voice faltering.

“Why? What's happening there?” Pirtrosal, not much older than Jiggon, regarded him with a horrified expression. The others all exchanged incredulous glances.

“We can jump in and swim over to Ishím Voróo and save our skins!” Jiggon pointed to the acronta defending the breach. Two more Walking Towers had been slain. “We have lost the battle. The black-eyes won't spare any of us!” He thought back to what his father had said back then in the hut when Jiggon had tried to persuade his family to rebel.
We should have been more cowardly and remained in slavery . . .

“But how can we be losing?” Pirtrosal screamed, scared out of his wits. “We've got the Towers that Walk on our side . . . and . . . and there are so many of us!”

Jiggon noticed that the acronta catapults had ceased their fire. That must mean the älfar had reached the fortress and had captured these siege engines. “Get to the canal!” he repeated, his voice grim with disappointment. “The älfar are occupied with the Towers that Walk. This is our chance. Chuck all your equipment away. It'll only slow you down.”

They came out of formation, throwing down spears and shields. Even their armor. Running full tilt through the dark, they followed the sound of the water.

“Over there!” Pirtrosal shouted. “On the right!”

Too late, Jiggon saw a hundred red points of light glowing in the gloom and heard heavy snorting. A hoof stamped and tiny lightning sparks shot out around the fetlocks, throwing light on the legs, belly, neck and head of a black charger.

Night-mares! Less than two paces away!

A latecomer firebrand soared up from the fortress, a bright tail that illuminated humans and black-armored riders in its wake. White steam rose from the nostrils of the mounts standing in a densely packed row.

Jiggon's stomach lurched and the hair on his head stood on end. Without knowing it they had run past a unit of reserve älfar. He stopped and stared.

One of the älfar broke into malicious laughter. The rest joined in.

They only allowed us to run away for a joke!
Jiggon reacted to the evil mirth with a shudder of fear.
We will never reach the canal!

A command in an obscure tongue resulted in one of the line advancing and drawing his sword.

“Game on!” the älf shouted, this time in the human language. “If you get to the water you live.”

Is it possible?
Jiggon staggered back and stared up at the mounted adversary.

“Start running if you want to live. Your barbarian chums are almost at the bank by now.”

The night-mare revealed its snapping, vicious teeth. The solo rider advanced.

Jiggon whirled around and ran like the wind to escape death. His troops were ahead, running for all they were worth, pushing and shoving each other in their haste to get away. Some had tripped, dragging others down as they fell. Some managed to scramble back to their feet. There was no
esprit de corps
, no common cause; it was every man for himself.

“Faster!” Jiggon shouted. “You have to run faster! The moat isn't far off!” He overtook them, leaping over fallen bodies. His legs were young, strong and rested. He no longer had his heavy shield or spear to weigh
him down. Another twenty paces and he was racing over the flat ground at the head of his men.

There was the canal moat, its bank so close now.
Any moment!
“Quickly! Nearly there.”

Behind him he heard the first scream. Jiggon did not dare to look around. Naked fear drove him on while his comrades were slain.

Jiggon launched himself in a mighty leap to get as far as possible into the stretch of water.

But there was no water.

He fell into empty air.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard) southeast of the Gray Mountains, to the east of the former Golden Plain,

4372
^nd
division of unendingness (5200
^th
solar cycle),

winter.

Carmondai was not worried about crossing Gwandalur. Virssagòn and his barbarians had gone ahead and Carmondai was sure they would not have left anyone alive that could pose any threat to him.
Sinthoras will be having a harder journey.

He had followed the road leading east from the Golden Plain, riding a night-mare someone had lent him. The black steeds were faster and had far more stamina than horses and there was no longer any need to pretend he was an elf.
The masquerade is over.

Carmondai was surprised to find that there was no frontier post, no barrier and no fortress at the border between the Golden Plain and Gwandalur, only a little sign in an indecipherable script hanging on an intricately carved post. He assumed this marked the border and he was now in Gwandalur.

Snow lay on the ground and he saw neither village nor lone homestead as he crossed the empty landscape.
At least it wouldn't take me long to draw . . .

A mountain appeared on the horizon, its summit piercing the clouds: the lair of the dragon.
I wonder if the elves live in the mountain, too? It
would make things easier for them. And it would explain why there aren't any houses.

It was difficult to judge the distances, but he thought it would be a couple of moments of unendingness before he reached the foot of the mountain.

Another night in the open air, or maybe two or three.
He cursed under his breath. He was not fussy and certainly not spoiled, but having to sleep outside under a tree or in a hole in the ground was no joke in winter.

I wonder if there are any barbarians in Gwandalur? I could stay in one of their houses. I wouldn't have to talk to them, like Morana does. She's spent far too much time with humans; she's nearly one of them herself now.

Late in the afternoon the wind stopped and the sky cleared and, shortly, Carmondai rode past a shallow valley. A stubby tower with smoke coming out of the top squatted in the middle of the valley. On the side of the building there was an extension, propped on poles against the main wall. Around the base of the tower there were a few crude huts; it was clearly not an elf settlement.

Barbarians. They're like rats. They get everywhere.
He turned his night-mare, heading down from the little hill they were on toward the bottom of the valley; they rode through a newly planted area of pine and birch. From the saddle he could see over the tops of the young trees and saplings.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed saplings swaying. Someone was moving through the plantation, coming straight for him. His night-mare snorted a warning, having got wind of the danger.

Carmondai had just enough time to draw his sword before an elf in a dull gold breastplate shot out of the wood and thrust him out of the saddle. Carmondai landed on his back in the snow.

Rolling over, he jumped to his feet and looked to see where his enemy was, but the elf had ducked back into the cover of the small trees.
Virssagòn hasn't been as thorough as I would have expected.
He noticed drops of blood on the snow.
Is that mine?
He did not feel any pain.
It must be the elf who's injured!

Carmondai threw his bag containing his notebook and pens to one side in order to be freer in his movements.

The armored elf appeared from the undergrowth again, wielding a broken sword. He struck four swift blows that Carmondai was able to parry before diving back into the thicket. This time Carmondai saw that his opponent was bleeding badly from a wound on the thigh.

I bet you could tell me a story or two!
Carmondai set off after him, following the trail of snapping branches. He noted where the twigs had lost their layer of snow.

He went deeper into the dense plantation until he reached a small clearing, two paces wide.

The elf was standing there, sword in hand, breathing heavily. He called out some kind of a challenge to Carmondai. He had no idea what it was, but it did not sound friendly.

Suddenly there was a rustling from all sides and the sound of branches breaking. A score of barbarians clad in furs and animal-skin jackets emerged from the trees, swords and clubs at the ready.

“Got him at last!” shouted a man with a long blond beard.

Carmondai realized they must be mistaking him for Virssagòn.
He certainly used to be more thorough. In the old days he would never have left an enemy alive.
“Yes, you've got me—even though I'm the wrong älf. I advise you all to hide again or you'll never see another daybreak!” He pointed his sword at the elf. “I only want him. The rest of you can get lost.”

The elf shouted something again, incomprehensible for Carmondai. The barbarians attacked, rushing him in a wild, unruly throng, reliant on the fact he was grossly outnumbered.

Two he brought down with fast, sure, stabbing movements to the chest. He darted through the gap he had created and dived into the undergrowth. “Come and get me!” he called. “Your deaths bear the name Carmondai!”

They followed.

Carmondai had tricked them into surrendering their greatest advantage: instead of staying together they took him on one by one. The branches got in the barbarians' way, hampering their sword arms, and there was no room to wield clubs with sufficient force to do any damage.

You've the elf to thank for this. He sent you after me.
Carmondai showed them what an älfar blade could do—severing branches, clearing space, before striking the body of his adversaries. “Your death is called Carmondai!” he yelled. Seven, now eight, barbarians fell bloodied to the snow to breathe their last.