Devastating Hate (46 page)

The rest turned and fled, but their heavy winter clothing snagged on the trees, slowing them down. Carmondai comfortably dispatched them one by one, slicing off their heads, stabbing them, or hacking off their limbs so they collapsed screaming.

After a few moments he had seen to all of them and had cleared a red-stained path through the undergrowth.

And where is the one who started all this?
He returned to the clearing to find the elf still there. Brandishing his dripping sword, Carmondai announced: “Your barbarian underlings are all dead. The stupid deserve to die, my friend.” His breath was coming somewhat more quickly than normal, but he had not exhausted himself.
How is the elf going to react?

The elf's face showed no distress. “I wanted to see the way you älfar fight,” he retorted. “I wanted to see where your weakness lies.”

“And did you find it?”

The elf nodded. “And that is why I shall defeat you.”

“You? With your broken sword? I don't think so.”

“I need nothing more in order to kill you.”

“You know I'm not the one your barbarians thought I was.” Carmondai approached his adversary with caution.

“I know. The other one had better armor. And he didn't even look like you.” He lifted his weapon. “He was the one that destroyed the sword of my forebears. After I have killed you I shall pursue him and make him pay.”

“Those are fine plans for a corpse.” Carmondai considered how best to overpower the elf and take him prisoner. Then he would force
information out of him about the mountain and its dragon. “Why do you allow humans to settle on your land?”

“We own no land.”

“So this isn't Gwandalur?”

The elf gave a laugh. “Of course it is, but your way of thinking is petty, outdated and backward, like the elves of Âlandur. We don't have an empire or divide our land: Gwandalur is everywhere our dragons can fly and humans pay us tribute. We are not constrained by arbitrary lines on some map. Our only exception is made for the elves of the Golden Plain.” He took his sword in both hands. “Is there anything else you would like to know before I put a stop to your questions?”

“Yes. When did my comrade come through here?”

“A day ago. He was on his own and looking for something.”

Trophies.
Carmondai knew how Virssagòn liked to collect particularly attractive limbs so as to make souvenirs out of them. He would show visitors around his collection on winter evenings and had an anecdote to go with each item. His latest acquisitions were selected from among Hianna's female students. “You've been hunting him down?”

“I found myself by chance in the humans' village, taking their tribute levy.” The elf was becoming impatient. “I have been considerate enough to answer your questions. Now you tell me: Why are you here in Girdlegard? What do you want here? Your army will soon be routed. Is that what you want—to die so far from home?”

“What we want is to wipe out all the elves. We've dealt with the Golden Plain. Gwandalur is next.”

His opponent laughed at him. It sounded more arrogant than any älfar laugh. “You intend to storm the mountain? Good luck with that! Our dragon-riders will turn your army to ashes!”

“I've heard the dragons can't fly in wintertime,” Carmondai reacted to the taunt. “Their blood is cold and slow.”

The elf frowned. “Is that what they say?”

“Our scouts are good.” Carmondai swirled his sword through the air and the last drops of barbarian blood flew off the blade, making a red line in the snow in front of the elf. “Whenever you're ready, just step over the line.”

“And did your spies find out what the dragon-riders look like?”

Carmondai could not remember. He looked at his enemy's dull gold armor.
Those figures on the metal, are they dragons?
“I suppose you are one of them?”

The elf gave a malicious grin. “You have guessed correctly. Now, have a little think, black-eyes, however did I manage to reach that village?”

“On a—” Carmondai had been about to say
horse
, but he hesitated in the face of this haughty expression.
What if the dragons
can
actually take off in the cold season? If so, why haven't I seen any?

A broad shadow covered the clearing and snow was swept from the branches. Then he heard an almighty roar.

Looking overhead, Carmondai saw a green dragon with a huge body and a tail of the same length. Its wings were spread wide and its muzzle was open as it got ready to roar again.
So that . . . By infamy! The frost doesn't affect them at all! The nostàroi must be told, immediately.

The dragon folded its wings and dived down to earth. Carmondai, still staring at the beast, heard the elf's armor scrape as he moved and lifted his sword at the last moment. Their blades clashed in midair.

The elf attempted to strike him in the head, but Carmondai evaded the blow, drew his sword back in and glanced upward to seek out the dragon.
Best if I try and stay really close to the elf so this creature can't get me.

“And suddenly you don't seem so confident,” mocked his opponent. “Fengîl obeys the slightest signal. I only have to waggle my finger and—” The elf broke off in the middle of his sentence and his eyes rolled up in his head. Gouts of black blood emerged from his mouth, ran down his armor and splashed onto the snow; then he released his hold on the broken sword, fell sideways to the ground and did not stir again.

Virssagòn must have used poison on his blade.
Close above his head Carmondai could hear the dragon snorting and its wings flapping.

He flung himself down, praying the beast's claws would miss him.

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,

4371
^st
/ 4372
^nd
divisions of unendingness (5199
^th
/ 5200
^th
solar cycles),

winter.

Polòtain stood in his courtyard early one morning looking at the sculptures that had just been delivered. After Sinthoras had been exiled, the mood in Dsôn had lightened. The name of the nostàroi—once so admired, but at the same time feared—had no power over the älfar any longer. Polòtain had had no difficulty finding another sculptor to take over the commission.

He strode around the figures.
One for my beloved Robonor and one for the unfortunate Itáni, who paid for her courage with her life and secured my revenge
. He kissed the marble figures symbolically on their cold, lifeless mouths.

Then he signaled to his serfs that they should take the figures and place them in the marketplace, so that the citizens of Dsôn could see a double version of his victory over Sinthoras.

Polòtain strode back into the house and climbed to his glass-roofed extension. There he would take his daily dose of loffran infusion to protect himself against the purple phaiu su. There had been rumors that some älfar had become ill despite taking the brew, but he preferred not to give credence to these reports. And anyway, he had become accustomed to the taste.
I have eliminated the plague called Sinthoras; these relatively harmless parasites won't hurt me.

Seated, he had his servants bring the hot drink and some biscuits. Unlike many of his neighbors, he had never had any problems with unruly slaves and none of his had joined the Army of the Ownerless.

“Out with you,” he commanded, and the veiled barbarian women hurried back down the stairs.

Then he put his feet up on the upholstered stool, took the cup in his hands and sipped the tea, while enjoying the view over the Black Heart.

Polòtain adjusted his capacious black and silver silk robe. It was soft to the touch and pleasant on the skin. For the first time he was acutely aware of his age. He wondered how Carmondai managed to cope with the harsh campaign life he had volunteered for.

The burdens of the last few divisions of unendingness were starting to recede from his shoulders. He had achieved his sworn objective, albeit in a roundabout fashion: to bring about the fall of his enemy Sinthoras.

I should have preferred it if he had been banished to Phondrasôn, but this way he is condemned to permanent solitude. The shame is too great for him ever to return to Dsôn Faïmon, even after the forty divisions of unendingness have passed.

His gaze lingered on the roofs and strangely empty streets of Dsôn.

They've all crawled off to hide. There's no reason to fear. No älf should ever be afraid of anything.
He saw the sickness as a test of endurance that the älfar had been visited with. It would eliminate the weak and leave the best specimens alive.

Since the site of the outbreak had become public knowledge, Polòtain had found out everything he could about this sickness. His mother had once told him about a threadworm pestilence that had once hit their race. Though it had been a milder version, the parasites had died off eventually, starved of nutrition.

That's exactly what will happen this time, too.
Polòtain sipped the infusion.
We just need to take protective measures.

He did not believe that the dorón ashont had infected the town deliberately. He thought it more likely that the unfortunate älf had become infected with the parasites in Ishím Voróo: it was sheer chance. According to reports, he had crawled through any amount of filth in his efforts to escape.
He could have picked it up then. The dorón ashont are not bright enough to think up a scheme of these proportions
. Putting the goblet back down on the table, he picked up a biscuit. He could imagine the battle at the island fortress.
Then the horrors will be over, once and for all. The Army of the Ownerless! What a joke. We ought to change their name to the Army of the Lifeless.

Plans were already afoot in Dsôn to use the rebels' cadavers: a pile of bodies was to be placed in each vassal town as a warning never to rise against the älfar again.

Polòtain had suggested rehousing the vassal peoples in settlements on the other side of the defense moat, thus increasing älfar territory.
He expected the Sibling Rulers would agree, given the events of recent moments of unendingness.

Security through expansion.
The Comet campaign motto had been adopted by the residents of those radial arms most affected by slave rebellion.

Polòtain picked up a pen and started to record his thoughts on political strategy and how best to deal with the serf question.
We gave the barbarians too much freedom. We should keep them in their own towns, like animals in pounds. That's the only way to control them properly.
He liked this idea. He would present it at the next meeting with the Inextinguishables.

One thing was certain, he thought: the Constellations have lost influence. He took a mental note that his next speeches should blame the exiled Sinthoras for all the failures of the Tark Draan campaign. A second wave of attack could be started in the spring. A glorious victory awaited and the destruction of the elves would be assured.

He looked out of the window and considered his choice of wording for the discourse of his next address.
If we had had more land on the other side of the moat, the dorón ashont would never have gotten so near. Thus it follows that Dsôn Faïmon must extend its borders as soon as the sickness has been overcome, by at least 200 miles in all directions.

He smiled as he scanned the notes he had written.
And I thought I had retired from all that. This feud with Sinthoras has given me a taste for politics again.

Polòtain got up from his armchair and walked out through the large balcony door onto the viewing platform that ringed the building. With a warm southerly wind playing in his hair, he did not find the cold too bracing.

He took deep breaths and filled his lungs with fresh air.
Ye infamous gods, I have you to thank for this outcome. After all the pain I suffered, now Robonor is avenged.

He saw his neighbor Nèlosor in the process of having a new work of art installed in the courtyard and raised his arm in greeting. The work looked to be from Tark Draan and had the style of the bonesmith Durùston.
I wonder if I should plunge back into the intrigues of the empire?

The daystar was sinking toward the crater edge and ceding power to its rising cousin. As the moment of unendingness drew to a close, a cloudless sky promised a biting frost.

A faraway rumble sounded like distant thunder.

Polòtain looked around, but could not see storm clouds anywhere on the horizon.
It can't have been the catapults. The battle is much farther away and the wind is blowing in the opposite direction.

There was another rumble.

The windowpanes of the tower shook in their frames and two of the pieces of glass cracked from top to bottom.

An earthquake? We've never had an earthquake here in Dsôn!
Polòtain left the balcony and was about to go down the stairs to a safer part of the building, but something to the northwest caught his eye. In the light of the dying sun a powerful foaming jet shot out of the crater wall. From this distance, the gushing fountain seemed small, but at its origin, it would probably be around twenty or thirty paces broad; the water steamed in the cold air, sending up a yellow fog.

Wherever is the water coming from?
He tried to think what to do.
Should I go and inform the watch?

It was many miles to the far side of the crater. Dsôn was not in any danger from a flood: the water would dissipate and drain away before it ever reached the outskirts.

But the sight of that gushing water brought back distant memories.

The memory of a story his grandmother had once told him, about the origins of Dsôn Faïmon.

She had told him that. A violent shudder hit Polòtain's property and he was thrown off balance. Cups jumped off the table and smashed on the floor tiles; part of the balcony fell away and plunged down into the courtyard. All the windows in the little tower shattered. He put up his arms to protect his face from the flying glass.

Then it grew quiet again.

Impossible!
He struggled to his feet and looked at the surging water.
I remember. She told me it had dried up long before the moat was dug.

A huge boulder hurtled down from the crater wall and the fountain became a cascade, boiling and foaming its way into the hollow in which
Dsôn had been built. The yellow clouds of gas formed an impenetrable fog over the water, but Polòtain could see the vast hole above the waterfall grow broader and broader. The surge continued.
The old river has come to life again!
The constant stream pouring into the crater would be enough to flood Dsôn.
Unless it stops soon we shall all drown! I must get out and onto higher ground.

He ran down the steps, shouting for his servants, and yelled to Godànor to pack a few vital things and to get the carriage ready.

When the courtyard gate was eventually opened, he was confronted by the sight of crowded streets: älfar, slaves, night-mares, and wagons forced their way between rows of houses, all trying to make their escape in different directions. Voices. Neighing. Rattling wheels . . .

Ye gods of infamy! What do you have in store for us?
Polòtain thought he could even hear the sound of the cascade above the hubbub. Dsôn formed the Black Heart of the empire and lay at its very center, but it was also the deepest point in the depression. Unless the water could be stopped, the crater would fill up together with all the radial arms in a matter of moments of unendingness.

“We must get out of here!” he shouted, swinging himself up into the smallest carriage.

“Master,” countered a terrified slave, “We'll never even reach the exit!”

“Godànor!” he yelled. He got the servants to attach four night-mares to the wagon instead of horses.

The young älf, still doing up the last strap on his armor, came running up. “I'm sorry! I was out the back and—”

Polòtain pointed to the driver's seat. “Get me out of here! Out of Dsôn! I don't care how you do it!”

Godànor nodded, shoved the barbarian off the seat and grabbed the whip.

“And the rest of you! Watch the building! Look after it!” he ordered his distraught household. “I'll be counting every single coin when I get back.”

Godànor drove the night-mares with furious blows of the whip in his hand. They dashed out through the open gate. Biting and snapping, they
pushed their way through, ramming other vehicles and thrusting them aside. Any foot traffic was trampled under their flying hooves.

Polòtain hung on for dear life as the coach juddered and jolted over holes in the road or rolled over fallen bodies. Chaos reigned and screams filled the air. The wooden vehicle survived impacts with other carts and crashes into stone walls. “Make for the south. Take the Cajoo road and then head for Nagsar Square!” Godànor was pulling on the reins for all he was worth in an effort to control the animals. “Get to the edge of the crater! There's a narrow path that leads up.”

“Not to Riphâlgis?”

“No. That's where everyone will be heading. The roads will be jammed. Not many know about the little path.” Polòtain looked around. The crush was growing thinner. The coach wheels were red-stained and blood had even sprayed into the interior. The night-mares and Godànor's armor were also spattered with red. Their escape had been at the expense of others' lives. Guilt was very far from his mind.

He saw the yellow cloud of steam behind them rising and spreading in the air.
This is not normal. What sort of a river is this? You would think it's not water at all. It's more like liquid sulfur. Boiling liquid sulfur.

They did not slow down.

Godànor urged the night-mares on; they protested noisily at the vicious blows of the whip, but kept running, their sparking hooves drumming on the ground and scattering the bone pellets of the road surface.

They left the densely populated city and reached the outskirts to find waves of refugees on the move.

Polòtain commanded his grandson not to let up and not to spare the animals. “Take the right fork!” he shouted, seeing the first groups of älfar on the narrow path that led to the top of the crater.
Not too many of them as yet. That will soon change.

After a few miles Godànor halted the carriage where the path started to climb. His way was barred with a jostling horde of people. “We're here!” announced Godànor.

Polòtain wondered whether he should try the ascent on one of the night-mares, but decided on another tack. He got out of the vehicle and joined the ranks of the fleeing multitude together with Godànor.

He felt hot despite the winter temperature. He was being pushed and shoved and no one seemed to respect his name or his rank. It was each to his own.

Progress was so slow. It was an age before they had reached the first of the steps. He had no idea how much time had passed.
One, two splinters of unendingness?
He forced himself up the narrow stairs, reckoning he and Godànor were now perhaps a dozen paces above the ground.

Looking back, he could see the wave flooding through Dsôn accompanied by the yellow cloud of gas; the hissing sound was audible even at this distance. Where the flood hit, whole buildings were dissolving.
That is not ordinary river water!