Devastating Hate (48 page)

He slid down, jumped lightly to the ground and ran to the side of the hall. There was a passage leading straight on; Virssagòn took it.

This brought him to the bottom of a vertical shaft incorporating a spiral ramp hewn out of the rock.

Virssagòn assumed the ramp would permit an injured dragon to get safely back into the interior of the mountain if no longer able to fly. And horsemen and vehicles could use it without any need for a lift.
Clever idea.

Nothing about the inside of the mountain looked hastily conceived and every inch of the walls was decorated with symbols or murals. Elf art was not to his taste, but he had to admit that the elves were a whole lot better at handicrafts than the groundlings. They could almost compete with the skills and aesthetics of the älfar. The mountain must have served the elves as a home for many, many divisions of unendingness.

Something else struck him: how quiet it was.

The alarm must have only alerted those elves on sentry duty; the rest of them were likely to still be asleep.

I'm not complaining.
Virssagòn went up the ramp and farther into the mountain's interior.

The upper stories were arranged in circles with frequent openings off the central shaft. He took one of the corridors, listening out. He could hear the sounds of sleepers moving, low conversations, a little music. Sometimes there would be a smell of food, or else fragrant oils. The walls, as in the main hall, were smooth and polished in places. The floor was either made of flagstones or covered in carpets. The higher he got, the more opulent it became—the residents of the top floors had taken much more care with the ornamentation and comfort.

Virssagòn assumed the lower regions were reserved for soldier elves who would not care so much about luxury.

The ramp ascended through many hundreds of paces; small lamps on the walls spread a pleasant red glow.

At last he reached an area where there were no living quarters. The passageways were wider and he could hear chains clanking. There was a loud, deep snorting very close by, as if a huge bellows was being worked. The air had an acrid smell and a wave of heat swept toward him.

Ah! I have located the dragon.
He started to feel nervous.

His knowledge of dragons was restricted to what he had learned from legend. He did not know how refined their sense of smell might be and he had no idea what the creatures were capable of, or in what ways they might be vulnerable. He did not even know where their hearts were located. For a warrior such as himself, who always made sure he was well informed about any adversary, this was an unsatisfactory state of affairs.

Virssagòn crept along the first corridor he came to, always following the sound of the creature's breathing.

He saw a small door, which he opened carefully.

Two elves lay in their beds. The room smelled of leather and metal. He could see leatherware such as belts, bridles, harnesses and reins. There were also iron rings and hooks; presumably all the equipment needed for controlling a dragon in flight. It was like a tack room.

Those will be the dragon-riders.
He left their chamber, silently closing the door, and moved on.

The temperature and the smell increased. He started to sweat.

On his right he saw iron bars. In front of the metal grating there was a series of pulleys, and levers and chains went up to the roof and through the rock: it was a cage.

The dragon slept in its enclosure, anchored by metal bands, its wings kept clamped to its sides. It lay on a bed of hot ash and glowing coals, its head resting on its short front legs. Its eyes were closed.

Virssagòn calculated the creature's torso must be a good eight paces long and its coiled tail was probably the same length when extended, though its head and neck were relatively short. The scales shimmered grayish white in the light of the glowing coals. There was a two-seater saddle suspended above the dragon's back.

Of course they can fly in winter!
Virssagòn scowled. His mission here was suddenly gaining in significance.

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

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

winter.

Téndalor took up his bow and notched a long, dark arrow, pulling back the string until his recently healed wounds smarted.
Die!

His fingers released their hold and the missile shot off, striking the dorón ashont directly through the slits of his helmet. The target, the last of the dorón ashont still standing in the breach of the walls, already had several arrows sticking out of his torso, but it was Téndalor's steel-tipped arrow that finished him off. He swayed and eventually landed on top of his dead comrades.

Téndalor gave a whoop of joy at his success and clambered, together with several of his colleagues, over the enormous corpse.
I'll soon have control of the island fortress once more. I've won it back from you.

Still balancing on the remains of the collapsed wall, he stopped in surprise: a whole section of land was missing. The water that had been in the defense moat was pouring down into a yawning abyss and clouds of steam rose up, soaking his face and shimmering in the moonlight. He had assumed the sound of the river was the noise of catapults firing.
They have excavated a huge hole and are emptying the defense moat! Do they still have an army in Ishím Voróo?

Aïsolon appeared at his side. Noting the cavity, he immediately commanded his troops to withdraw. There were no dents on his armor, but plenty of yellow and red splashes of blood. “There are no enemies left to defeat. Off to Dsôn! Fast!”

“Why have the dorón ashont done that to the defense moat? What did they hope to gain by it?” Téndalor asked. “Where's the water going?”

Aïsolon's expression showed deep concern. “It is flowing into the bed of an ancient waterway. The river was there at the time our ancestors founded the city, but they diverted it and used the water to feed the defense canal.” He turned and ran off. “We must get to Dsôn and warn the inhabitants!”

The underground river leads to the Black Heart?
Téndalor had a metallic taste in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but could not.

The defense moat had lost a good half of its water, but three rivers fed it, so it had not gone dry.

Téndalor considered the geography of the star-shaped realm.
Dsôn will fill up first, like a bathtub, and then the radial arms will flood!
“Aïsolon! We have to block the hole they have dug!”

The commander of the army looked back at him. “Can you explain exactly how you would do that? Soil would be washed away at once. The water pressure is too strong. Dsôn needs to be warned and then we'll have to leave it up to the experts to find a solution. We can't stop the flood.” He raced off.

Téndalor's entire body felt numb and he could hardly walk. He grabbed the next riderless night-mare and rode as quickly as he could in the direction of the capital, hard on Aïsolon's heels.

The animal he had taken moved quickly. Before he knew it Téndalor found himself at the head of the column racing to Dsôn.

He caught up with Aïsolon. “How did the dorón ashont know about the old river bed?” he called. “How come we didn't know about it? Why did we wait so long before attacking?” Even as the commander of an island fortress he had not known about the diverted river.

“Perhaps their forefathers made charts of the region? I expect they have already taken the rest of their army along the dry river bed.” Aïsolon looked extremely worried. “This will not end well, Téndalor! Water is more powerful than any catapult when it comes to inflicting damage!”

He knows my name!
The elation, however, was short-lived. In his imagination he could see the dorón ashont lined up in a circle around the crater, smiting any of the älfar who managed to escape the rising waters.

Side by side they galloped over the plain. Their night-mares sensed the urgency and did not falter in their headlong race, though the sweat foamed at their sides.

The sun rose and showed the älfar a sulfurous yellow cloud hovering over the site of the city.

Téndalor and Aïsolon approached from the northwest. The entirety of the dorón ashont's army waited on the crater's edge. The front ranks were looking down into the crater, while at their feet a broad waterfall poured into the basin.

Téndalor reined in his night-mare and looked down on his homeland. The sight that greeted him left him horrified: Dsôn no longer existed.

Yellowish vapor drifted over a bubbling cauldron of dark liquid. Even if the level of the water was not especially high, it had been enough to swallow up every tower and spire. Not a single building or roof was to be seen. Not even the Inextinguishables' famous Tower of Bones. There was nothing to suggest the Black Heart of Dsôn Faïmon had ever stood in this place. There was only a seething expanse of hissing, foaming liquid.

“It's acid,” said Aïsolon, completely at a loss. “Oh ye gods of infamy! They transformed the river into acid.” He stared at the dorón ashont. There were hundreds of them now: the enemy's banners fluttered in the breeze high above the center of the älfar realm. “Ye gods! They have done away with the entire city and its people. It's all dissolved!”

Téndalor shuddered at the thought of the intense fear the fleeing älfar must have experienced.
If I had been able to hold my island fortress, none of this would have happened. They would all still be alive. I bear the death of thousands of älfar on my soul.
The faces of friends he had lost paraded past his inner eye, staring accusingly at him. He did not know how to react to this immeasurable disaster. “Aïsolon . . . kill me,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I . . . They were only able to put their plan into action because I failed to hold the island fortress.”

Aïsolon shook his head. “No. I shall need you. You will ride against the dorón ashont at the head of our army. If you survive the battle, the gods will have forgiven you.” He pointed to the yellow waters. “The acid will have reached the radial arms. The life of every remaining älf is vitally important now. Who knows how many of us there are left?” He pulled his mount's head around. “Get back to the army. We must defeat the dorón ashont—they shall all die!”

Fadhasi, you are an unforgiving deity.
Téndalor drew his dagger and scratched out the tiny symbol on his armor.
You saved me from the waters once, only to heap shame and guilt on my shoulders.
He followed his leader.

They had covered a quarter of a mile when cracks started appearing in the snow and clouds of yellow gas began venting from them. Riding through these fumes gave him a coughing fit and he felt as if he were
about to suffocate. Even his mount was suffering badly from the toxic steam and slowed its pace. The acid air stung his eyes.

“The ground is breaking up under our feet!” croaked Aïsolon. “Ride quickly!”

They urged their night-mares on as parts of the ground fell away under their hooves. The animals stumbled frequently, but somehow managed to keep upright; miraculously, neither of the älfar was thrown.

At last they reached terrain where the cracks were less defined and they were able to regain solid ground.

The night-mares had reached the limits of their endurance and their legs were shaking. Téndalor's mount collapsed first, followed by Aïsolon's, but the riders were lucky enough to jump clear, landing on soft earth as their animals fell.

Téndalor looked south toward the dorón ashont.

Their army was running for its life. The huge creatures were leaping over the cracks opening in the ground, disappearing by the dozen in the gaping chasms, swallowed up in the steam.

Samusin punish them! Slay them all!

“Let us give death a helping hand,” said Aïsolon grimly.

The älfar took their bows and sent their arrows winging toward the Towers that Walk. The injuries they were able to inflict on their targets were sufficient to slow them down, and those that slowed fell victim to the chasms in the rock.

Of all of the dorón ashont, only the nimblest were able to escape the horrors of the turbulent earth—but then the whole region sank with a tremendous rumbling noise, taking the last enemies of the älfar with it.

“Samusin be praised!” Aïsolon lowered his bow.

I give no praise to Samusin.
The deaths of the dorón ashont could never make up for the loss of all the älfar who had died.

Aïsolon inspected his exhausted animal. “We can't wait until our mounts recover.” He pointed north. “We must make our way on foot to rejoin the army and report what has happened.” He strode away, followed by Téndalor.

“And what happens now?”

“You have survived the battle,” replied Aïsolon. “The gods of infamy have decided you are not to lose your life.”

Perhaps I do owe my survival to the gods of infamy, but what value do I put on this life of mine
? “No. I meant: what of our people? Our whole race?”

“That will be our next task, Téndalor. We must locate the Inextinguishables and ask them.”

“But . . . if they were in the Tower—”

“They are called the
Inextinguishables
. Do you understand? They bear that name with good reason.” Aïsolon's words were confident and convincing. “Our army will keep their eyes open for any survivors and set up a camp for them. After that we'll have to think about ways to stop that river so that we may rebuild the city of Dsôn.”

Téndalor hoped that the Inextinguishables still existed, so that the surviving älfar might be shown a way out of this disastrous situation. Without their rulers, he felt, their race was doomed.

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.

The dragon flew in overhead and snatched the dead elf. Carmondai looked up from his prone position. The creature rose back up to the skies with powerful strokes of its wings, making snow swirl through the air.

That was a close shave. Why did the dragon not go for me?
Carmondai stood up and brushed the snow from his clothing.
Will it be coming back?
He scanned the horizon.

The dragon, flying east and as small as a bird now, soon disappeared entirely.

It looks like I'm safe.
Carmondai surveyed his surroundings.
I ought to explore the village. There won't be many barbarians left if Virssagòn passed this way.

He returned to the plantation and crossed it to reach his night-mare. Two barbarian corpses lay on the ground at the feet of the creature. They
had bite marks in their throats and their torsos were half-consumed. Steaming guts hung out of the night-mare's muzzle.

Lack of caution is death to a stupid man.
Carmondai led the night-mare over to a group of huts, sword in hand, ready to fight, but there was no one there to attack him. Not even a dog barking, which was just as well: he did not like dogs; they stank and dribbled and hardly ever obeyed—and they would betray their master for a piece of meat.

A strange tower stood in the middle of the huts. The snow just at its base had melted and Carmondai could feel warmth issuing from the walls. He moved around it and discovered a wheel-operated iron trap that a handcart could pass through. There was a ramp constructed of bricks leading up to the trap.

What is this?
Curious, Carmondai began to work the mechanism.

The trap opened and a room appeared. Sparks as big as his hand flew out of the door—the heat was intense. Carmondai took a few steps up the ramp to look inside.

A thin layer of coals had been spread on the ground and dragon manure was burning, polluting the atmosphere with an acrid smell.

It's a warming tower
.
Perhaps this is how the dragons are able to function even in winter: these towers prevent their blood from thickening.

If there were more buildings like this, the elves would be able to use their dragons all winter long. This meant they could attack the älfar army whenever they felt like it.

He sketched the tower with its upper extension; did a drawing of the dragon from memory and another of the kind of armor the elves wore. He drew every small detail that could prove useful.

He was surprised that Virssagòn had left the little tower standing.
What is his game? Has he found out more than I have?

Even though the thought made him uneasy, Carmondai decided to spend the night in the hamlet—he could explore further and report back to the nostàroi.

He looked in the houses and discovered footprints indicating that any barbarians who might have been there, had left.
Were they afraid of Virssagòn? But he would have left a trail of blood and there is none to be seen. Or have they run away for fear of the dragon?

He chose the largest of the huts, one with two rooms, and having put his night-mare in the shelter out front, made himself a bed in the loft. He felt safer from attack up there should anyone approach the village, and his night-mare would warn him if there were any nocturnal visitors—and with any luck eat them on sight.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains,