Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  Everything was burning. Enormous pressure built up within his body; his head felt close to exploding.

  With a strangled cry Arganaï fell back onto the bed.

  CHAPTER IX

  My words are as arrows

  flying straight and true:

  hurting, wounding, killing

  My words are as balm

  to wounds of the soul:

  curing, mending, healing.

  My words are as death itself.

  My words are as life itself.

  For they are

  my own words.

  Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

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

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

  early autumn.

  Autumn had come to Dsôn. The dark gray leaves of the native black beeches drifted onto the surface of the defense canal, forming small islets that floated serenely this way and that.

  On the lateral lookout tower of island fortress one-eight-seven, Téndalor stood watching as nature had its way. It was a pleasant sight that had a calming effect on his soul and gave him the opportunity to let his thoughts wander.

  On the other side of the water lay Ishím Voróo. Somewhere to the northwest of the region the dorón ashont waited. The älfar empire expected their attack, but none had come as yet.

  I’d never have guessed we’d see their like again. Téndalor would have liked to send out scouts to see what the dorón ashont were up to, but he had been given strict orders to do nothing: the Inextinguishables did not want to tempt fate or provoke the enemy. Instead, the empire put its faith in its defense catapults and the effectiveness of the cleared exclusion zone on the far side of the canal. No enemy crossing that area would escape the hail of arrows, spears, burning missiles and stones that would rain down on them.

  Téndalor drew out his dagger and worked on the complex rune he had been scratching in the hard stone of the battlements. It symbolized protection from danger and was, of course, strictly forbidden. Translated, it was something like: In the protecting hands of Fadhasi.

  Téndalor had come across the Fadhasi cult many divisions of unendingness previously, in the depths of Ishím Voróo. The folk that used to worship Fadhasi were long gone, destroyed by the älfar.

  Téndalor had been intrigued by the idea of praying to a god who had only one follower—himself. He used the tip of his knife to chisel away at the grooves of the rune. A god of my very own. Don’t you go letting me down, Fadhasi!

  A horn blast from the Dsôn Faïmon side of the water made him turn his head. This will be our supplies.

  He gave his soldiers the command to lower the bridge on the city side so that the carts could deliver their freight to the island. The stores included arrows, spears and spares for the catapults in case repairs were needed.

  Téndalor blew the dust away from his rune symbol, put his knife back in its sheath and hurried down the tower steps to check over the consignment.

  He was not concerned about the quality generally, but something might have gotten damaged en route and he did not want any faulty equipment. If they suddenly had to mend an item in the middle of an attack and opened up a crate to find a load of junk, they’d be in real trouble.

  His men were already busy unloading when he got down to the small courtyard. “Let’s get these lids off, then.”

  The soldiers opened the crates and checked the contents carefully. It looked as if everything was in good order, so they packed it all away again tidily. Every square inch of space was required for storing ammunition and space was always at a premium on the island. The news of a possible invasion had only made things worse in that respect.

  “What a waste,” muttered the female cart driver, not helping at all.

  “What do you mean? What’s being wasted?” Téndalor looked at her in surprise. He knew she was called Ilinia. She had made deliveries to them before.

  “It’s a waste of my time.” She leaned against the wheel with a frustrated expression. “I earn my money taking cereal crops from the big farms to Dsôn or to the mills.” She nodded in the direction of the crates. “But instead I’ve got to do unpaid war work for the Inextinguishables. And nobody knows if there’s really going to be an attack, anyway.”

  Téndalor raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what you are saying?”

  “I do. And I don’t mind repeating it.”

  “We’re here to protect you, Ilinia! If the dorón ashont—”

  She gave a scornful laugh. “The bogeymen from the nursery rhymes? I know the old myth about how the Inextinguishables tricked them with poisoned wine. All älfar children know the old story of the Towers that Walk, but show me one person who has actually seen them, Benàmoi!”

  “An älf named Arganaï. We saved his life.”

  “He says he’s seen them. But did you?” She came away from the cart and moved antagonistically toward him. “Did you see them?”

  “No,” he had to admit. “I haven’t seen them myself.”

  “And have we had reports confirming the sightings?”

  Téndalor clenched his jaw. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I just find it strange, Benàmoi, that we are going along with the word of one single älf, and if we haven’t sent a squadron out to verify his story, is it because the Inextinguishables aren’t sure they believe him?”

  He gestured toward her cart. “And why would they send you from one island fortress to the next with a load of arrows and spears if we weren’t expecting an attack?”

  Ilinia shrugged her shoulders. “How should I know what goes on in the minds of the Sibling Rulers? Perhaps they just want to make you think there’s an invasion coming, so that you stay especially alert. We all know a whole obboona unit managed to get over into the empire. They won’t want that happening again, will they?”

  Téndalor did not want to agree openly. But he had been thinking it odd that he’d been told not to send any scouts out to investigate. Maybe they don’t really believe this Arganaï and they’ve just brought our supplies up to date with the aim of calming the fears of the populace. “It’s all one to me. I assume—”

  There came a shout from the tower: “Benàmoi! There’s a groundling on the other side of the water!”

  Ilinia looked puzzled. “What do the groundlings think they’re doing here?”

  Téndalor hurried over to the passage, to make his way up the tower. “You should reconsider your opinion, I think, Ilinia!”

  Swift as the southern wind, he raced up the steps to reach the viewing platform where two watchmen were waiting for him. “Are you both quite sure?” He looked over toward Ishím Voróo and did not have to wait for their answer. It was all too true.

  On the other side of the river there was a solid little figure: a groundling, indeed, waving a huge white flag.

  I don’t get it. Téndalor was handed the spy tube. He observed the edge of the forest carefully through the polished lens. Nothing there. He’s come on his own. “How long has he been there?”

  “We saw him coming over the plain. At first we thought it was some small animal that had lost its way,” one of the guards explained. “I wanted to let it get a bit closer so we could test out our catapults, but then we noticed we’d got it wrong. He had the flag over his shoulder and then he started waving it like crazy.”

  Téndalor put the spy-tube down. My island fortress seems to be where it’s all happening. “He’s obviously keen to negotiate. But what about?”

  “The Stone Gateway?” suggested the second guard. “Or the other passes? They see themselves as the ones that protect the whole land, I’ve heard. Perhaps the groundlings have sent an envoy wanting to reach an agreement with the Sibling Rulers.”

  Téndalor thought that was unlikely, but he couldn’t come up with a better idea. “Let’s find out.”


  He turned and gave the order for a troop of twenty älfar to accompany him. He wasn’t allowed to send a scout to Ishím Voróo, but if he stayed on the bridge he was not contravening his instructions. He arranged for the catapult team to stand ready. I’m not afraid of one little groundling, but this looks suspicious to me.

  Téndalor ran down the steps and jumped on to his night-mare. The chains and pulleys creaked and clattered and clanked until the wooden drawbridge linking the island to Dsôn was shut; the watch had ignored Ilinia’s furious protests. She was stuck on the island now.

  “We’re ready, Benàmoi!” called one of the soldiers.

  Téndalor gave the order to lower the drawbridge over to Ishím Voróo. The heavy chains unrolled slowly until the wooden structure landed with a bump onto its anchor point on the other side of the water.

  Téndalor rode over with his escort and approached the waiting groundling, who took a step forward onto the end of the bridge. Téndalor looked at his light armor and appraised the dwarf’s weaponry: he had a crude, ugly knife at his side; the handle of an additional long sword was visible over his shoulder. He was not very much of a threat.

  Téndalor had heard about the groundlings’ fondness for beards, but this one had shaved his off. His head was bald, too. Then he realized his mistake. They’ve sent us a female. They probably thought we wouldn’t hurt her.

  She was certainly too big for a gålran zhadar and not really built like one of them. Téndalor was quite pleased about that. Those notorious Ishím Voróo beings dabbled in the magic arts and always meant trouble.

  Téndalor reined in his night-mare shortly before he reached the groundling. His beast could have taken a bite at her if so ordered, but she had an open face and was smiling. His escort surrounded him as well as they could, given the dimensions of the bridge. “Do you understand me?” he asked in the language of the barbarians.

  “Yes,” she replied happily, placing the end of the flagstaff on the floor. “Your accent is good.”

  “Then hear this, you insolent upstart: this is Dsôn Faïmon, the land of the älfar.” Téndalor was trying to control the anger he felt at her disrespectful remark. “You can count your lucky stars that you are still alive. Normally we would have shot at anything seen on the cleared strip.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said with a laugh. “I hoped you wouldn’t and my god helped out a bit, too.”

  This little groundling doesn’t lack courage. Even though she will die for it. “Tell me who you are and what you want from us, groundling!”

  “I am Rîm and I’m an Ubari, an undergroundling.” She pointed behind her without turning around. “My camp’s on the other side. My husband sent me . . .” She thought for a bit and then blinked. “I don’t know what the älfar call him.”

  Ubari? What on earth are they? Ridiculous name. “Call who?”

  “My husband.”

  Téndalor had to laugh. She is completely insane! “I don’t know him. And I don’t care what his name is.”

  She shook her bald head a little. “I don’t mean his name but the name you call his people. He’s rather special—”

  “I think you have lost your little mind.” He turned his night-mare and ordered his escort back in to the fortress, calling out to her as he rode away. “Get off the bridge and go back to your husband. My catapults won’t start firing at you until you are one and a half miles away, so the last 500 paces over to the forest should be exciting for you.”

  “One of your people has seen him, I know,” came Rîm’s high voice. “It was not so long ago. Near the abandoned cobold village. My husband is much taller and wider than you and wears heavy armor . . .”

  Téndalor halted his mount and pulled the beast’s head around, at which it protested loudly. “Are you speaking of a dorón ashont?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tower that Walks.”

  She chuckled. “He’d like that name, I’m sure. It shows respect.” Rîm held tight to the handle of her flag. “I’ve come because he wanted me to bring you a proposal that might prevent the destruction of your race.”

  Téndalor opened his mouth, but his response was drowned out by the scornful laughter of his mounted escort. “Quiet!” he commanded, studying the ubari carefully. She was calm enough, and did not give any impression that she was afraid for her own life. And she was entirely serious. “How come your husband thinks he could defeat us?” He indicated the defense canal and the island fortresses. “Have a look. We will destroy his followers and him before they even get to the water’s edge.”

  “Do you not want to hear his suggestion?” she asked innocently. “If you hear us, perhaps you will be celebrated one day as the savior of your people.”

  Téndalor rode toward her once more until his night-mare’s head was close to her face. The animal bared its teeth and snorted expectantly. “State your terms, but don’t be surprised if my people laugh at you again,” he said.

  Rîm did not move; she looked past the fiery red eyes of the night-mare and stared at its rider. “What the Inextinguishables did to my husband’s kind has not been forgotten, but your actions had unforeseen consequences: the poisoned wine left only the strongest and healthiest alive. These and their descendants have come to exact revenge in the name of the queen. However, the queen will be satisfied if the Inextinguishables surrender to us so that they may be punished. If they don’t, we shall destroy your whole empire.”

  Téndalor was lost for words. He could not even laugh. His escort had fallen silent as well. “You really are out of your mind,” he said finally, staring hard at her. “How can you—?” It was impossible to find words to express his indignation. This proposal was absolutely unacceptable for both the Sibling Rulers and for every single älf in Dsôn Faïmon. “Take her,” he ordered, turning his steed and thundering back over the drawbridge to the island.

  His escort followed, driving the ubari in front of them. She still looked quite unconcerned. She probably thought she was being taken to the Inextinguishables.

  They all rode back into the fortress. The bridge was raised again and the way out to Ishím Voróo was blocked once more.

  “Bring her over here!” Téndalor dismounted and went over to one of the catapults.

  Rîm followed him, her white flag over her shoulder. “This isn’t the palace. You are not taking me to your leaders?”

  “No, and you won’t be seeing them.” He gave the order to remove the heavy boulder suspended from the catapult arm. “But I’ll help you get back to your husband.” The soldiers grabbed her and managed to place her in the net despite her violent struggles. Téndalor came up close to her. “If you survive this, I have a message for your husband: tell him that we will fight anew, but this time we won’t leave any survivors.”

  “You’re trying to intimidate me, aren’t you?” She was still confident, still sure she would be released any second now. “I’m just the negotiator—”

  Téndalor gave the signal.

  The retaining lever clicked upward and the counterweight crashed down, releasing the throwing arm.

  Rîm shot, screaming, into the air, describing a high arc before reaching the edge of the forest and beginning to fall.

  Ubari have a good range.

  Téndalor followed her flight through his spy-tube and watched her crash down on the trees at the edge of the forest. For a short time she tried to free herself from the branches that had pierced her, but her blood ran too quickly from her body and her energy drained from her. Her head fell back as she died.

  “What a shame, she won’t be able to pass on my message after all.” Téndalor handed the glass to one of his troops. “But I think her husband will get the idea.” He told the crew to load the catapult again. He sent an alarm signal to the soldiers on the other islands to warn them that an attack was imminent. What had been a possibility was now a definite threat. Unless, of course, Rîm was completely off her head and making it all up.

  Téndalor
went back to the courtyard where he found Ilinia climbing back on to her cart. The bridge toward Dsôn Faïmon was down and the draft horses were straining to get underway. “What do you say now?” He asked. He assumed she would have seen the whole spectacle.

  “I haven’t changed my mind just because some nutty groundling or whatever turned up and spouted a whole load of nonsense, Benàmoi.” She leaned down with a sneer. “Her husband, eh? Did I hear correctly? That would be like a night-mare mating with a puppy.”

  “That’s what she said, and I—” Téndalor fell silent. Deep down he was trying to make sense of what Rîm had told him. “Well, whatever . . . There are such things as the dorón ashont. And we’re ready for them.”

  Ilinia looked at him pityingly. “You’ll see—nothing will happen. And all this is just wasting my time—”

  Shrill alarm tones issued over the water. An attack.

  “There you are, with your made-up story!” he hissed at her furiously. “Go, if you’re leaving. We will be pulling the bridge up shortly.” Téndalor ran back up to the platform. “What’s happening?”

  A dull hum filled the air and something large landed in the water, causing a huge wave to drench the älfar.

  They’ve got catapults. Fadhasi, take me in your hands! Téndalor wiped the canal water out of his eyes. “Find out where they’re shooting from,” he ordered, sending two soldiers to the top of the bridge, now in its upright position. “Hurry!” That’s what we get for not having sent out scouts. He would never have thought the dorón ashont were capable of constructing such powerful catapults.

  “Benàmoi! Over there! At the edge of the forest!”

  Téndalor took a look through his spy-tube.

  Had he ever needed proof of the existence of the Towers that Walk, here he had his evidence: a heavily armored dorón ashont wearing a black martial helmet shaped like a skull stood where Rîm had crashed to earth. He tenderly lifted her body from the branches; blood trickled from her wounds, painting red lines on his armor.