Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  My instincts were right. Morana decided to leave. “Forgive me, I must—”

  He strode over to where she was and kissed her violently on the mouth. Violently, but without warmth.

  She pulled free and pushed him away so that he staggered against the table. “No, Caphalor! It’s not me you want—you want your companion back!”

  He was about to reply, but clapped his hands over his face. “What am I doing?” he muttered again and again.

  I must not stay a splinter longer! Morana picked up the box, turned and left the tent, hurrying past the guards who were obviously at a loss to understand what was going on. They had been on the point of entering the tent. “He’s not well,” she told them. “Perhaps it’s the same thing Sinthoras is suffering from.”

  She flew back to her quarters and packed the things she would need for the mission, stuffing Virssagòn’s new weapon into her bags without looking at it. Time enough for that later. She threw off her dress and put on her armor.

  She hurried along to the stables, where she saddled one of the barbarian horses.

  It doesn’t matter what I feel for him, I cannot give in to his advances. Not as long as he carries the image of a dead love in his soul.

  Morana swung herself up into the saddle and galloped out of the camp, ignoring shouts from one of the guards.

  Morana did not want to be given any message. She did not want to hear from the nostàroi and she did not want to hear from Caphalor. From now on she would concentrate purely on her task: to win over barbarian monarchs as allies for their cause.

  CHAPTER VIII

  All eyes were fixed on the northeast, where the dorón ashont were assembling.

  But there was a far greater danger in Dsôn Faïmon.

  In Dsôn itself, the Black Heart.

  Unrecognized but in the very midst of the älfar.

  Unrecognized and yet made welcome.

  Unrecognized but given everything it needed to live.

  The danger grew and gave birth to new danger.

  Epocrypha of the Creating Spirit

  Book of the Coming Death

  50–72

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

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

  early autumn.

  “How do you feel?”

  Carmondai could hear Caphalor’s voice through the helmet surprisingly well. He had forgotten what it was like to wear the head protection and the heavy armor. He was not wearing it to make himself feel safer but because, in the eyes of the troops, it turned him into Sinthoras. He gripped his night-mare’s reins tighter in his gauntleted hands. “All right so far.”

  The nostàroi laughed quietly. “Try sitting up straighter. Sinthoras loves everyone to see him. He likes to be admired.”

  “But remember, I’m apparently still suffering from the mysterious sickness. Wasn’t that what we agreed?” But Carmondai went ahead and adjusted his posture in the saddle.

  “That’s why I’m suggesting you stay toward the rear, giving support to the flank with your presence until we have closed our trap around the elves.”

  Carmondai longed to open his folder and start drawing, but it would look very strange if the nostàroi were seen fooling around with paper and pencil. He turned his head and took in all the visual impressions so that he could use the images after the battle.

  Caphalor was wearing armor that was almost identical to his own and only slightly less ornate than his ceremonial attire. The regular älfar troops eschewed heavy protective gear, preferring to rely on freedom of movement and their particular advantages: their agility and the range and strength of their longbows. They wore a simple leather body covering and a helmet and carried a small shield: very few of them even had arm and leg protectors.

  The army advanced north at a brisk pace, heading away from the crater. A number of riders bringing up the rear dragged shrubs behind them to increase the cloud of dust their progress stirred up. It was important the enemy should see them coming.

  “I wonder how the elves will react?” said Caphalor, not sounding as if he had any doubt as to the outcome of the battle.

  Carmondai could smell the earth that was disturbed by their passage, mixed with the smell of the night-mares’ sweat and the soft fragrance of the flowers of the Golden Plain. War and beauty. The nostàroi had explained his plan: Carmondai’s contribution was to sit on his night-mare and stay away from the fighting, inspiring the soldiers with his presence. He was not to intervene and not to give any orders as the benàmoi had been given their instructions already. “What happens if the elves don’t do what you have predicted? Won’t the warriors near me expect me to give orders?”

  “Everything will happen exactly as I have told you.”

  “You’ve fought the elves so often that you know how they work?” Carmondai smiled under his helmet. “I am helpless with respect.”

  “Just do exactly what we’ve discussed and raise the morale of the troops,” Caphalor said curtly. “Make the most of being the focus of admiration and keep your comments to yourself.”

  “It won’t be me they’ll be admiring, but Sinthoras.”

  “You will experience the honor on his behalf.” Caphalor readied Sardaî to move off. “Keep to the plan, and remember that you are Sinthoras when you are wearing this armor,” he reminded Carmondai. The nostàroi turned and rode off toward the rear guard.

  Ye gods of infamy, let me live through the fighting! Carmondai was reassured to know that ten of the Goldsteel troops were by his side, but he knew that in every battle there were unknowns even the sharpest mind could not cater for. Especially given that they were confronting an enemy who had not been tackled for many divisions of unendingness. An eternity. Carmondai did not know of a single älf who had ever fought against the elves.

  He was amazed at how confident Caphalor appeared—and how sure he was that glorious victory would be theirs.

  Carmondai surveyed his surroundings.

  There were around 8,000 älfar cavalry nearby split into equal-sized units. In each of these units there were both archers and warriors trained in close combat, plus a few spear-carriers. The vanguard consisted of around 4,000 älfar and the troops bringing up the rear numbered an unusually strong contingent of around 8,000 älfar.

  They had no allied troops along with them, not even to employ as arrow-fodder: it was vital that the victory over the elves should be an undiluted älfar triumph. Caphalor had rebuffed the idea that they might incur unacceptable casualties in their own lines.

  Carmondai faced the front.

  The valley they were riding through had low hills with sharp rocks on both sides and was gradually getting narrower. Enemy archers could find excellent cover anywhere along the route.

  I sincerely hope Caphalor knows what he’s doing, or we’ll be riding straight into a perfect trap.

  A loud horn signal sounded: the enemy had been spotted.

  Carmondai’s detachment galloped to catch up to the front: the rear guard had their orders and fell back accordingly. They would be taking no part in the action: those 8,000 warriors would be sorely missed when the armies clashed.

  When he rounded the corner he saw the elf army waiting for them at the narrowest point of the valley. There was no way around them. Their lines were less than 200 paces apart.

  By all the infamous gods!

  It was a surprise to see that the elves had heavy cavalry at their disposal. Their lances were significantly longer than the ones the älfar bore and both elves and horses were armored. Long banners of many colors waved in the breeze, swirling in the air and looping around each other.

  Nobody mentioned the cavalry when we had that briefing! Carmondai distinctly remembered hearing that the elves fought in a similar way to the älfar. Perhaps the strategy advisers have overlooked the fact that we are on a plain. It was obvious that an army in territory such as this would have adopted different fighting tactics,
employing heavy lance-bearing troops.

  Carmondai tried to calculate how many troops they were facing. He reckoned the enemy had almost equal numbers to their own. They’ll mow us down if we’re not careful!

  The enemy horsemen formed a solid block about 500 soldiers wide and there were sixteen rows behind the first line. Then Carmondai saw the infantry behind them: a broad wedge at the exit to the valley with subdivisions of light cavalry in between.

  So the elves definitely had the upper hand as far as numbers were concerned and the älfar troops bringing up the rear would not be able to attack directly because of the way the valley narrowed.

  Carmondai slowed his breathing inside his helmet. They’ve done exactly what Caphalor said was impossible: behaved contrary to our expectations. He was extremely concerned. It was as if he had been sent back in time to a period he had long forgotten about.

  Even before the last of their own troops had moved into the valley, they could hear the fanfares being sounded by the foe. The armored cavalry of the elves rode steadily forward to reduce the gap between themselves and the älfar front line.

  The älfar took up the formation they had previously agreed on: a row going from one side of the valley to the other with a spear-carrier next to each archer. But anybody with half a brain could see that a long, thin line of soldiers was not the best tactic when faced with a solid block of the enemy. Behind this line the rest of the archers had taken up positions, ready to shower the enemy with arrow-fire.

  Carmondai realized that the enemy infantry was keeping out of the range of älfar archers. The elves are leaving the decision-making up to the heavy cavalry. They must have total confidence in them.

  The sound of thundering hooves grew louder: the elf cavalry were increasing the speed of their attack while still 1,000 paces away. They began to come in range of the älfar longbow archers.

  He remembered a verse of poetry:

  If sword blades glint in the sunlight

  and banners wave in the north wind’s breath

  The timid one covers his eyes with his hand,

  terrified of certain death.

  The slaughter and pain that will come before night

  Will give no quarter and have no end . . .

  Nobody could have predicted this! Arviû stared at the lines of elf cavalry. The army of the Inextinguishables did not have comparable units, but he did not doubt that his finely trained and well-equipped archers would be able to shoot the enemy out of their saddles.

  He turned to his benàmoi. “Tell our archers to use the simple, long three-faced arrow tips. They should be just right for piercing armor.” His command was passed down the line.

  We have chosen the wrong tactics. Arviû was not deceiving himself on that score: a thin line of troops was not going to offer much resistance to the impact of a block of iron and armored horse. He could see exactly what the enemy had in mind. They’ve got the right idea: they’re attacking me and my archers to eliminate the long-distance weaponry. Then they will follow through with their infantry and the light cavalry.

  He looked over to Sinthoras, motionless on his night-mare. He will presumably have worked this out for himself? The nostàroi’s visor was closed, so Arviû could not see what he was looking at. Caphalor was farther up the line and would not be able to see what was happening here.

  Arviû was not afraid. He was aware of what would happen if heavy cavalry charged his lightly clad troops. It would be like crushing icicles with a sledgehammer.

  He reached for his bow, which was three paces in length. Its asymmetric form meant he could fire from the saddle. He used his tongue to moisten the flight feathers. “Fly and bring death in my name,” he murmured as he signaled to the archers to make ready.

  The nostàroi’s command to fire must be imminent. If not, Arviû would lose many fine soldiers, even before battle had actually commenced.

  Carmondai could see around half of the elf light cavalry breaking out from the ranks of the infantry and charging over the plain. They quickly covered the distance between them and the heavy cavalry and raised their bows. They are providing fire cover to their own fighters!

  The benàmoi were just giving the order to loose the älfar arrows when the first enemy missiles hit the front line. At the same time the elf heavy cavalry riders lifted their shields to protect themselves from the älfar arrows. The elves were as efficient with their long-distance weapons as any älfar fighters.

  This isn’t going to work! Carmondai envisaged the cavalry charge mowing a wide path through their ranks, winning the vital advantage; any conventional maneuvers on the part of the älfar were doomed to failure. They are concentrating on putting our archers out of action.

  Wounded soldiers were tumbling out of the saddle in front of him, night-mares collapsed bellowing to the ground, kicking wildly about them on the trampled grass.

  When endingness pursues you

  and comes knocking at your heart,

  warrior, show death you disdain it

  and fear nothing, for your part

  Their älfar archers had responded to the hail of arrows, but were having far less effect on the ranks of the foe than the elves were on them. The armored enemy troops had taken a stand, protected by their shields. Only a small number of elves had fallen.

  The elf light cavalry unit came to an abrupt halt, sending another veritable shower of missiles toward the älfar before turning and removing themselves from danger. They had fulfilled their task.

  The number of injured and dead among their own älfar people was great, but their warriors were steadfast in keeping their position.

  Barbarians would have turned and fled.

  Carmondai calculated: another 500 paces and their cavalry will have reached our lines.

  Arviû roared out his orders to the troops to prevent chaos from breaking out.

  He could feel tension in the air. The nostàroi had still not changed the tactic that was proving utterly unsuitable: the armored riders were charging and would be breaking through their lines exactly where Arviû and his archers were standing. All of them saw disaster approaching fast, and there was no escape.

  I shall lose half my troops! At least half! What angered him most was that their arrows were having virtually no effect on the enemy. Their arrows would have pierced the elves’ armor satisfactorily, but were useless against the heavy metal-clad shields that absorbed most of the impact.

  If the nostàroi doesn’t act soon, I will! Arviû ordered his archers to speed up their volleys of arrows, hoping for chance hits. It was as if the elves had known, he thought, exactly what to expect from the älfar longbows.

  All Arviû’s battle senses were on high alert.

  He danced his night-mare to the side just as two arrows flew past him.

  I’ll show you how to do things properly. He could see that one of the elves was not holding his shield at the right angle, leaving a tiny gap.

  Raising his longbow he notched an arrow, aimed and sent feathered death winging its way through the air.

  His arrow flew toward the elves, slid past the edge of the shield and buried itself into flesh through the warrior’s shoulder protection. The sudden pain caused the elf to drop his arm a little—quick as a flash Arviû aimed a second arrow through the visor now visible behind the shield and his adversary fell sideways and then back out of view.

  That makes one less elf to trouble us. “Watch out!” he yelled, finishing off two further enemy archers. “Don’t let up. Shower them with your arrows. You’ll need to kill every single one of them if you want to survive!”

  Arviû glanced over at Sinthoras again; the nostàroi was still as a statue. What, in the name of all the infamous ones is the matter with him? How can he just sit there and watch us die?

  Soldier, draw your sword! Raise high your trusty shield

  In this fiercest of all fights

  Laugh at the threat of death in the field

  And your deeds will be honored and your name will
shine

  In the most glorious of lights

  It was becoming impossible for Carmondai to remain aloof. Arviû’s fleeting expression had been challenging and full of unspoken accusation. I am Sinthoras and I shall act like Sinthoras! I don’t care about Caphalor’s warning.

  He gave the order to break up the line and form a semicircle. “Spear-carriers! Dismount and get to the center, shoulder to shoulder,” he called to the bugler who relayed his signal with a blast of notes. “Leave no gaps!”

  He sent the mounted close combat soldiers over to the flanks and arranged fire cover, then split up the line of valuable and unprotected archers, hoping to avoid the elves dispatching all of them in one go when their armored troops charged through. He ordered that the riderless night-mares be pushed toward the elves to cause maximum mayhem. With any luck the animals might be able to break open the elf formation.

  Idea after idea shot into Carmondai’s mind and he issued a torrent of commands. “The spear-carriers must resist the onslaught. Tell them to ram the ends of their spears deep into the ground and place one foot against the shaft! I want to see the elf cavalry stuck in a forest of spears!” He urged his steed forward while the troops around him seethed in a hectic dance, taking up their new positions. “Archers, start firing! Stop this plague of elves!”

  The sound of approaching hooves almost drowned his words. The elf-riders thundered inexorably closer.