Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  That sounded more like a command than an offer. “Very kind of you.” One of the girls came over and took her horse’s bridle.

  Morana entered the tower, taking her surroundings in watchfully, wary of danger. A cautious nature was the mother of a long life.

  A famula in a deep yellow dress walked past her to a narrow shaft bathed in shimmering blue light.

  “You may follow Iula to the guest room,” Hianna said.

  “Come,” said Iula. “It’s quite safe. Don’t worry. We would never hurt a guest.”

  It may be a trap. Despite her unease, Morana let the famula lead her into the circle of blue light. She felt a tingling all over her body as invisible forces took her up through the shaft. “Magic!” she exclaimed although, of course, in an enchanted land this was only to be expected.

  “Yes, kept in permanent readiness by means of the mistress’s spell,” Iula explained. “The spell is fed by our force field, so there is no reason to worry it might lose energy and drop us.” On the way up, Morana saw doors set in alcoves with platforms to step onto; markings on the walls helped to identify the rooms beyond. “If you place one foot on a platform you’ll stop going up and can step out safely.” She demonstrated and Morana followed suit. “This is the guest wing.” The door opened onto a corridor. “I’ll show you where everything is.”

  Morana had noticed Iula studying her features. Iula was, herself, striking enough to break the heart of any barbarian with a bat of an eyelid, but in comparison to an älf she was only tolerably pretty. “Thank you.”

  Maids brought a tub to Morana’s room and filled it with fragrant warm water. A long black dress was provided for her to wear after her bath.

  “Would you, perhaps, like someone to help wash you?” Iula gave the impression she would be more than willing to carry out the task.

  “No, thank you. I would rather be alone.”

  The famula clapped for the maids to withdraw. “I’ll come back for you later. The mistress will be looking forward to dining with you.” She left the room.

  Another cozy tête-à-tête. Morana was reminded of the supper with Caphalor that had gone so very wrong. If I’m not careful I’ll be fighting off the enchantress, too.

  She put down her weapons and armor and laid her clothes on a chair before climbing into the water. A selection of fine-scented soaps and soft sponges had been placed by the tub. Hianna has good taste.

  Morana closed her eyes and permitted her thoughts to roam, wondering what the evening held in store.

  Her task had been to win new allies for the älfar campaign and she had already secured undertakings from several nobles, barons and earls. Barbarians were easily won over with the promise of gold and the prospect of a share of elf riches, fertile land and good hunting grounds. Humans are so predictable, but some of them still surprise me. She remembered the instance of a barbarian fighting off five robbers intent on seizing his wife. Morana had been riding fifty paces off and had followed the action with interest. Outlaws had ambushed a group of travelers and all but this couple had been killed. The man was quite badly injured, but he still tried his best to beat off all comers in order to protect his wife who was cowering at his side, sobbing with fear.

  The älf-woman had found this quite memorable: barbarians making sacrifices for love, not payment.

  In the end the man had been killed and the robbers had grabbed the distraught woman.

  Morana had intervened, slaying the outlaws.

  She could still see the blood-smeared features of the woman when she had pressed her partner’s sword into her hands with the words: “Learn to fight. Defend your next lover or die with him, but don’t you dare cower uselessly at his feet!”

  Any of that would have been unthinkable with our people. I could never have stood idly by if someone were attacking my companion. Morana took a sponge in her hand, soaked it and squeezed water over her head, indulging in the pleasures of the warm bath.

  She had come to Hiannorum in search of new support for the cause. It had struck her that a maga known for perfection in all things ought to be easy to win over because her motivations were already known: it would be easy to find something to tempt her. I’m sure I could entice her by saying the elves know the secret of beauty. Or I could say we hold the secret and would share it with her. Share it later, of course, after the war.

  Slowly, Morana became aware that she was no longer alone. A slight of touch of air on her damp skin betrayed the presence of someone else in the room.

  A trap? She jumped up and catapulted herself out of the tub in a single movement.

  As intended, she landed next to her weapons and seized hold of Sun and Moon, ready for action.

  She could not see anyone, but someone was there. I can hear you breathing! She raised Moon.

  “That won’t be necessary.” A familiar voice came from the shadows. An älf in black studded armor stepped forward into the light and bowed without averting his eyes. “I should have realized you would know I was there, but I had no idea it was you when I entered the room.” His eyes scanned her body. “And no idea you would not be clothed.” He tossed a towel to her.

  Virssagòn! Morana caught the towel and wrapped herself in it. I did not hear them sound the gong like when I arrived. Either he’s been here all the time or he’s just slipped in. “What are you doing here?”

  “No, that’s what I get to ask you,” he countered, leaning against the four-poster bed.

  “I’m here to win Hianna over to our alliance.” She threw her wet hair back and wrung it out. Water coursed down her back to form puddles on the floor. “Having a maga on board would be useful against the elves.”

  “That was not your mission.”

  “The nostàroi will be pleased—”

  “The nostàroi have sent me to Tark Draan to remove all the barbarians who deal in magic. They are a danger to us and their powers far outweigh our own.”

  “That’s why we need at least one of them on our side,” she insisted. He just enjoys killing.

  He pointed to the window. “How did you think you could induce her to join us? She already has everything she could possibly want. Jewelry, power, magic—”

  “She is obsessed with perfection. The barbarians might have thought her flawless, but when they saw me their smiles froze on their faces.” Morana knew she was stretching the truth somewhat, but she wanted to ensure that Virssagòn did not wipe out a potential ally. “If I tell her she could be made as beautiful as an älf—”

  “And how would that work?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’re to have dinner together tonight. I’m positive I can reel her in.” Morana looked the warrior full in the eyes. “Give me this chance! If it doesn’t work you can always go ahead and kill her.”

  Virssagòn considered this, his eyes sweeping over her body, concealed somewhat under the towel but still visible enough. “Agreed,” he said after a slight hesitation. “I shall be there when you talk to her. She won’t see me, of course.” He smiled. “You received my gift. Do you know how to use it?”

  “I still need practice.” As she spoke, she put on the black dress, placing her armor over the top, and fastening Sun and Moon to the belt on her hip.

  Virssagòn smiled. “You can go anywhere dressed like that: out to dinner or off to battle. You look like the pride of the älfar.” He made silently for the door. “I don’t know whether or not to wish you luck. It might be good for our campaign if you win, but it would derive me of my fun.” He opened the door and disappeared.

  Morana admired her reflection in the mirror. A good mix: beauty and danger. She painted a light smudge of soot around her eyes and on the lids to make herself look more sinister.

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

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

  late autumn.

  “Another one! From the west!” The alarm signal rang out across the courtyard.

&
nbsp; Téndalor looked out and caught sight of a black speck arcing down through the air, about to hit the ruins of island fortress number one-eight-four. The workforce attempting to repair the towers began to run.

  “It’s spot on,” he muttered angrily. They’ve got the range exact now.

  The missile thudded home, sending the repair towers crashing down. This had been the forty-eighth attempt to get the support platforms up.

  In the name of infamy! How could this happen? Téndalor and his crew were now the only älfar defending the section between the radial arms Wèlèron and Avaris. All the other island fortresses had been razed to the ground or were too badly damaged to function. The island under his command, bastion number one-eight-seven, had had its fair share of strikes, but at least the walls were still intact, and in the intervals between bombardment, supplies arrived via the Dsôn bridge, so they had plenty of ammunition.

  One of his female comrades, Daraïs, appeared at his side. “Benàmoi, the troops for the decoy attack have arrived. When the sun is overhead we are to let down the bridge to Ishím Voróo.”

  Téndalor turned to the Dsôn side of the river, where the army the Inextinguishables had sent were assembled. He had expected warriors on night-mares and fire-bulls, but judging by their postures and the size of their mounts, it was obvious these fighters were only humans disguised as älfar. “Where on earth did they drum those up?”

  “Slaves wanting a bit of advancement with their masters,” answered Daraïs.

  So we’ve got armored slaves and they’re sitting on horses and oxen in war paint. The Inextinguishables did not want to risk genuine älfar lives on a frontal attack on the dorón ashont. He could not control his amusement.

  Daraïs smiled with him. “I’d like to bet they won’t reach the other side of the cleared strip. Or the enemy catapults.”

  “Just as long as they win a bit of time for our own warriors.” Téndalor signaled for the bridge to Dsôn Faïmon to be lowered. The sorry crowd of pretend warriors trooped onto the island. There were fewer than fifty real älfar among them driving the barbarian slaves on, encouraging them to believe they might actually survive the mission they had volunteered for.

  But they won’t, of course. Téndalor looked toward Ishím Voróo again. None of them will come back.

  The dorón ashont had set up camp on the banks, out of range of the heavy älfar catapults. After the island fortresses to the right and the left of one-eight-seven had been put out of action, there was nothing to deter the enemy from entering the tree-free area.

  Téndalor was proud of the accuracy of his catapult crews, which had ensured that his own fortress had not shared the fate of the neighboring islands. He put his trust in his god, Fadhasi. “We shall be granted the sight of our mythical adversaries being defeated for the second time in history.”

  He had heard that the Inextinguishables had ordered a foray. The main body was in the west, marching into Ishím Voróo and circling behind the dorón ashont, while the barbarian troops here provided a distraction. Téndalor would give the barbarians covering fire, but that was all he was prepared to do. They’re only slaves, after all.

  He watched the false älfar troops ride over the first of the two drawbridges. He could hear their laughter and could see the smiles on their ugly faces. They really do think they’re going to be victorious. “Get the catapults ready and lower the second bridge,” he commanded.

  The chains clattered as they were slowly released, allowing the wooden platform to swing down.

  The odd collection of soldiers advanced, sweeping through the courtyard and stepping onto the bridge even before it was completely level with the ground.

  “Death can’t come to them soon enough, it seems,” said Daraïs cheerfully.

  “Who knows what they’ve been promised?” Unobserved, Téndalor touched the Fadhasi rune he had carved. Give us the strength to destroy this enemy once and for all!

  The body of human soldiers were now in Ishím Voróo, dividing in two with the intention of attacking the enemy camps to the right and the left of fortress one-eight-seven. With almost childish enthusiasm they raced off at a gallop with weapons drawn. The genuine älfar warriors among them fell back and remained near the drawbridge. They had done their duty and had no wish to go down in a hail of stones.

  The dorón ashont had long since seen the attack coming and had put their defense lines of huge warriors in place. Their catapults hurled stones the size of óarco heads at the attackers. The salvoes came in waves, tearing great gaps in the slaves’ ranks. Barbarians, horses and oxen died in the bombardment.

  They’re only concentrating on one direction. Téndalor looked west where the authentic älfar army was scheduled to appear. There was a dust cloud in the distance. That’ll be them! This will be the end of the dorón ashont!

  At that point something strange occurred: the giant creatures, who had so recently formed a protective phalanx to counter the mounted troops, all pulled back. One by one they turned tail and sought shelter in their camp.

  “We’ve taken them by surprise! They weren’t ready for us!” Téndalor clenched a fist in triumph and took out a spy-tube to watch their destruction.

  Daraïs laughed. “We’ll give them something to be afraid of!”

  The true älfar warriors charged through the opposition’s camp, showering the canvas shelters with arrows before overturning the tents or setting fire to them.

  Then the earth swallowed many of the night-mares and their riders.

  The advancing army hastily came to a standstill.

  Téndalor hastily placed the spy-tube to his eye. “The dorón ashont have excavated.” Téndalor told Daraïs what he could see. “They must have known what was coming—” He heard a loud noise and then the clatter of weapons, quite close to where he stood.

  “Benàmoi! They’re on the drawbridge!” yelled Daraïs. “They’re on the bridge!”

  “Who’s on—?” Téndalor put down the tube and turned.

  Not ten paces from the bank a hole had opened up in the earth. Dorón ashont were surging out of it.

  The älfar warriors who had been waiting at the end of the drawbridge lay dead next to their slaughtered mounts. The hate-fueled enemy had trodden them into the ground with their iron shoes.

  “Catapults, fire!” Téndalor could not grasp the fact that the enemy were already so close to the fortress, running swift as the wind in spite of their size and the weight of their armor. It looked as if the ground were giving birth to this teeming throng. “Get the drawbridge up!”

  Daraïs had gone white. “By all the infamous ones! They’ve dug a tunnel!”

  A salvo of arrows flew toward the dorón ashont, but could find no purchase on their long, studded shields. Not a single enemy soldier died. The timbers of the bridge groaned under the stampede.

  The winches jammed and the drawbridge stopped rising.

  Another ten paces and they’ll be here! “Keep turning! What are you doing?” Téndalor shouted to the bridge crew.

  “It won’t budge!” Daraïs reported. “Look over there!”

  The weight of the dorón ashont forced the bridge downward. The älfar could not possibly close off access to Ishím Voróo. No! His gaze swept the battlements. “Get into the courtyard!” he ordered those manning the catapults. “Hold the gate and get the second drawbridge up. When you’ve done that, destroy the capstans so they—”

  A sudden draft touched his hair and something heavy flew overhead to land with a thud just behind where he stood. Purple light exploded around him and a deafening thunder set all his limbs aquiver. Ice-cold fear overtook him.

  Daraïs screamed and drew her swords.

  Fadhasi, don’t forsake me! Téndalor turned and drew his own weapon. All he could see was a wall of iron: an excellently forged set of armor covered with ornaments and symbols—and a metal gauntlet wielding a mighty war hammer aimed at his midriff.

  Téndalor bounded back and tried to ward off the blow, but he had
underestimated both the force and the range at his adversary’s disposal: his sword was struck out of his hand by the shaft of the hammer and the weapon’s head struck him on the side of his body, hurling him against the parapet as if he had been a cloth doll.

  Téndalor felt a sudden pain in his chest as he struggled to breathe. He slipped down onto the floor, his left hand reaching for the Fadhasi rune on the stone wall. Where is the support I prayed for? The walkway was teeming with dorón ashont. His own men were being slaughtered piecemeal. The älfar armor might as well have been made of paper.

  A vertical sword-strike split Daraïs from the helmet down. One half of her toppled over into the courtyard while the other fell onto the walkway. A blow from an ax took off an älf’s right side; another älf lost his face to a spiked gauntlet.

  No army can defeat the dorón ashont! Fighting for breath, Téndalor lifted his head to examine his own injuries. The hammer had crushed his left side, halving the size of his chest. There was blood splattered all over his protective harness and his shoulder had been totally destroyed.

  I must . . . Téndalor tried to get up, but his feet kept slipping on the stone floor. Warn Wèlèron . . .

  A blackened helmet filled his vision, and from behind the death’s head visor, a pair of purple eyes stared at him fixedly. Téndalor could hear a growling noise, directed only at him.

  Rîm’s husband?

  “I don’t understand you, you freak!” he groaned, desperate for breath.

  He was grabbed by the nape of the neck and held up in the air, so that he could see that the bridge to Dsôn Faïmon remained lowered.

  “What are you doing?” he groaned. Then he was swung around and forced to look in the direction of Ishím Voróo. The älfar warriors there charged toward island fortress one-eight-seven. Fadhasi, I beg you: send a miracle!

  All of the attacking dorón ashont had crossed the bridge and now they pulled the drawbridge to Ishím Voróo back up.