Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  She twisted to look behind her, where Famenia could see light and hear armor clanking and horses snorting.

  This was the second stage of the plan: Narósil and his mounted elf brigade had started out of the forest area and were taking up their positions. They had lamps attached to their shields to help them see and to get the enemy to notice them: the bait in the trap.

  Famenia twisted back to face the cavern. It was not long before the älfar took up their stand on the path, ready to confront the foe. The älfar infantry remained at the back while the mounted archers pushed to the front, busying themselves with their weaponry. The unit that had driven the hostages back to the town did not reappear.

  I wonder if the elf fighters have managed to take Milltown? Famenia rubbed her hands to get her fingers working again.

  The dull noise of many hooves hitting snow came from behind her: the mounted elves had begun their assault against the älfar; their horses’ hooves narrowly missed her hiding place.

  The plan was that—following the first clash—the elf cavalry would spread out, forcing the älfar to chase them.

  Let’s hope the älfar fall for the provocation. The snow began to fall heavily, obscuring Famenia’s view, but she could hear horses whinnying and the sound of screams and shouts close to where she hid. Some of the älfar arrows must have hit their targets.

  Then the elf cavalry turned and galloped in her direction, as if fleeing the battlefield.

  Famenia saw at once that something had gone wrong: the elves had been forced to break their attack early due to the hail of älfar arrows and they still had a good 5,000 enemies to contend with.

  Then the snow slowed and stopped.

  Famenia saw the massed älfar troops on their black mounts riding down the hillside to overtake the elf forces. The night-mares’ eyes glowed red in the darkness and sparks flew around their fetlocks. It was a truly terrifying sight.

  The enemy swept down like a tidal wave, coming ever closer to her makeshift shelter. The occasional arrow landed nearby; one missed her by inches. There was a brownish liquid on the shaft. Poison!

  The approaching army thundered ever closer, making the ground shudder and shake. Bits of earth crumbled from the walls of her hideout and tumbled on top of her.

  There are simply too many of them! Far too many for one of my firework spells to have any effect. She had expected that only a couple of thousand would survive the elves’ attack, but the advancing army numbered many more. Still, Narósil was relying on her, as were Ossandra and all the townspeople, and if she jumped up and tried to run it would be suicide. Keep calm, girl!

  With the nearest enemy rider not twelve paces distant, Famenia sprang up, slinging the sacking to one side and pronouncing the spell she needed. Please let this work! It must! The amulet heated rapidly and her head buzzed with the effort.

  Accompanied by an ear-splitting noise, a bright silver wall of magic in the shape of a bell appeared.

  The first of the night-mares crashed straight into it, its rider unable to steer the animal from its headlong gallop. The transparent, apparently fragile wall of magic proved to be as resistant as a cliff-face. The head of the black steed burst open on contact. The magic shape gave a happy little sound like a peal of bells. The force of the impact sent the animal’s body careering diagonally upward and over the top, its rider flying straight up into the air.

  Famenia did not see where he landed. Or how.

  The rest of the night-mares came hurtling along to crash into the barrier, setting up a continuous ringing that grew steadily more intense. The magic bell cleaved the sea of death without mercy; a silver rock in a surging black tide.

  All these sounds—night-mare death screams, quite unlike any noise a horse would make, the clanging of armor, älfar curses and shouts—wove through the noise of the ringing bells. Famenia was terrified. Blood spattered the magic shield, covering the whole structure with a film of red liquid. Thick gobbets of flesh slithered down the wall.

  Famenia could feel the amulet’s heat grow more intense. She would soon get burn blisters on her hand.

  But the wave of hurtling bodies did not slacken. Inside her magic semi-circular shelter it grew dark as älfar bodies and night-mare carcasses piled up.

  The sheer mass of bodies will crush me if I can’t sustain the spell! She had not thought of this eventuality when deciding on what magic charm to employ. Her fear increased.

  Eventually things grew quieter—a mountain of cadavers surrounded her. She tried not to look at the squashed and deformed faces of her enemies.

  Muffled sounds of combat came to her ears and the ground shook.

  Could that be the elves riding up? Famenia was dripping with sweat and her hand was burning. Can’t hold on any longer . . .

  She released the spell and leaped backward at the last moment to avoid the collapsing bodies. She did not quite manage to escape them all and a contorted, shattered night-mare with a broken neck plunged to the ground very close to her, trapping her leg under it.

  Oh ye gods, no! She tried to pull her leg out from under the beast and was able to release it just before the pile of bodies became a bloodied avalanche.

  Famenia crawled over the piles of broken flesh, sobbing. She stayed low, terrified she might be hit by one of the poisoned arrows. After a while she risked standing up and staggered on, casting frightened looks back over her shoulder at the battlefield.

  Where her protective bell had been, älfar and night-mares were piled together in twisted heaps; any wounded had been dispatched by showers of arrows from elf archers.

  Milltown has been liberated! It is free of the black-eyes! The children are safe!

  The remaining älfar were attempting to regroup at the foot of the hill, out of range of the elf archers, but they were now coming under attack from the cavalry under the command of Narósil.

  Famenia heard the metallic clang of armor and steel weaponry and witnessed the devastating injury inflicted on the enemy lines. Lances brought death, night-mares were flung to the ground, their riders pierced through; then the elves swung around and rode back to the meadow to gather for a renewed strike: the final onslaught.

  Famenia was totally exhausted by the effort of sustaining the bell and her ears were still ringing from the noise. Jujulo had intended that particular charm to be used as a musical instrument for entertainment purposes. She had only been able to hope it could also serve as a protective mechanism. One more assault and we’ll have them.

  She turned to look again and her breath failed her: the älfar were not waiting quietly to be dealt their final blow. They had taken up the pursuit and were careering after the elf-riders.

  A female älf led the foray, her long pale hair streaming out behind her like a banner. Nearly all the mounted älfar troops were following in her wake, aiming to prevent the elf-warriors from turning around for a final ruinous onslaught.

  The elves realized what was happening and put on a burst of speed to avoid being overtaken. Soon the lamps on the elves’ shields disappeared in the distance, the älfar following. This left the last of the älfar infantry standing in front of the smoke-filled cave entrance, wondering what to do.

  I wonder how many of the elves are still alive and in the town? How many did Narósil assign to gain access to the cavern? Famenia was afraid that the victory that had seemed so close would turn out to be a rout. She stroked the amulet. It barely made her fingers tingle, demonstrating how little energy it still held.

  She sprinted toward the town across the meadow, which was now thoroughly churned up by countless hooves. She stumbled over the clods of earth and over corpses, swerving to avoid hands grabbing at her when she passed injured survivors. Everything smelled of earth and blood, and the sound of älfar moans and of night-mares in pain pursued her until she reached the bridge and crossed into Milltown.

  Elves appeared, bows in hand, hurrying silently past her.

  Ossandra came running up and threw herself into Famenia’s arms.
“That was fantastic! You saved us all!”

  Famenia lifted the young girl up and hugged her tight. “How wonderful to see you! But thanks must go to the elves.” She pointed to the warriors now withdrawing. “Do you know where they are headed?”

  “My father said they want to finish it.” Ossandra gave her a kiss on the nose. “I am so glad nothing happened to you.”

  “Come on! Let’s see what the elves are doing!” Ossandra nodded and Famenia, still carrying her, ran up the steps to the top of the town walls.

  The clouds had vanished and the moon had appeared, as if the sky wanted Milltown to witness the fate of their torturers. The high walkway gradually filled up as more people arrived to watch. Nobody spoke.

  They know as well as I do that this has not yet been a victory. Famenia bit her lip until she tasted blood.

  Using the mills as cover, the elf contingent had crept up to the enemy and were sending a lethal barrage of arrows at the älfar.

  One älfar fell, one after another.

  “They deserve everything they get,” Ossandra said. “They must never hurt us again!”

  When the remaining enemies turned to the mountain in despair and attempted to flee, the elves who had laid the fire in the cavern came over the ridge and threw stones on the foe, forcing them to let go their handholds and plunge to their deaths. The population of Milltown cheered.

  The town gates were opened one more time and the menfolk streamed out over the bridge armed with scythes, threshing implements, pitchforks and spears, intent on ensuring that not a single älf would survive. Even as the last of the fleeing älfar were killed on the mountainside by boulders chucked down from the ridge, wholesale slaughter commenced on the battlefield.

  That decides the outcome. Famenia gently lowered Ossandra to the wall and turned to see what was happening up by the cave mouth. However hard she wished for the elf cavalry to reappear, they did not.

  But neither did the älfar.

  CHAPTER XX

  And so it was that Virssagòn came to Gwandalur on the fringes of the Golden Plain.

  And he saw that the mountain where the elves’ dragon lived would be nigh on impossible to climb.

  For this reason he sent his soldiers out disguised as elves to gather information about the enemy.

  What he heard illustrated the way the elves knew no restraint. They saw themselves as the dragon’s descendants, called themselves deities and demanded great sums from the barbarians in tribute in return for keeping the dragon quiet.

  But Virssagòn saw a chance to get rid of the dragon without having to fight.

  He knew the vulnerabilities of dragons.

  And the greatest of these—were the elves.

  Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

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

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

  winter.

  “I can hear you breathing!”

  Arviû did not have time to react to this criticism. He heard the stick whizzing through the air and knew the blow was coming from above right, aimed at his shoulder, but could not move out of the way in time. It struck home and he clenched his teeth so as not to utter a sound. If he had groaned he would have earned himself another clout, without question.

  “But you are making progress.”

  Praise from his mentor soothed the pain somewhat, but Arviû was not averse to the discomfort. Only by experiencing fewer aches and stings would he really know when he was improving. “I should not have missed the target,” he said ruefully.

  “You did not miss. You were spot on and would have hit it,” Païcalor answered. “But then I heard you breathe out. We can’t have that. It is vital for your safety that you are never seen or heard. Learn to control your body, but don’t be too hard on yourself. What you have managed to learn in the few moments of unendingness since your arrival, would have taken most älfar very much longer to master.”

  “I don’t care about what most would have done. I want to be the best,” retorted Arviû. “I have a goal and I want to reach it as soon as possible—before the nostàroi have finished in Tark Draan and I have nothing to do.”

  Païcalor stepped aside. “You want to kill elves?”

  “Not just kill them.” Arviû got to his feet.

  He had been lying on the ground between two narrow beams. He had been throwing needle-sharp daggers from that position at the center of the target. He was useless at archery now, but this he could manage. Païcalor, one of the guards from the Bone Tower, had been helping him practice. He had worked with various weapons recently: swords, spears, daggers and iron batons. He only stopped training long enough to sleep, wash, feed or defecate. He was too ambitious to take things easy.

  “I shall go to Tark Draan to bring more death and torture to the elves than any of my älfar colleagues,” he went on. “They blinded me, but that will become my unique advantage! When the lights are dimmed, their death screams will ring out.”

  He heard the rustle of Païcalor’s robe as he went to the door. “You may become the best ever, Arviû, but you will still need divisions of unendingness before you are ready carry out the task you have set yourself. Tark Draan”—Arviû heard a door open—“will be elf-free by then.” The door clicked shut.

  Then I’ll have to train harder. Arviû went over to the table to collect his outer clothing. When training under the Inextinguishables’ bodyguards, he preferred to wear simple breeches and a tight-fitting robustly woven silk shirt. That was all he needed.

  He picked up two metal-studded short staves and practiced twirling them in the air, running through the parrying, feinting and thrusting moves Païcalor had taught him. Arviû had had to learn by touch: a new kind of learning. Païcalor would stand behind him, directing his arms and adjusting his stance with movements of his knees.

  Arviû had made many mistakes to begin with, but his hearing was much improved and the slightest sound gave him invaluable information about his surroundings. He could hear when weapons were being employed and could accurately judge their speed and trajectory.

  That was why it was essential others should not hear him: he must not give away his own position in the dark lest he surrender his advantage over sighted enemies—even those of his own race. The älfar had always been good at seeing in the dark, but even they would have to rely on touch and auditory signals in complete darkness.

  Arviû was on the way to becoming a warrior no one would be able to match—unless, of course, he had to fight in the noise of battle.

  But I’ll have to master that skill, too. Arviû stopped the practice, noticing that he needed to rest his arms and shoulders. I’ll get some food and drink, and have a short break to restore my energy. Then I’ll find something else to work at.

  He put on his weapons belt, took hold of the long stick he had been using to steady himself and left the chamber.

  His steps were confident as he moved swiftly through the lower floors of the Bone Tower. On this level there were some sighted guards who could help him in an emergency. He used the echo from the tapping of his long stick to help with orientation.

  Occasionally he could still get lost, and he had fallen downstairs a few times, but these accidents were few and far between nowadays. Going blind, he had learned, was not the end of life; it only meant a different life. What he desperately missed, however, was beauty; he could not see the elegance of the edifice the Inextinguishables lived in, the decorated walls, the ornaments, the murals, the art . . . all of this was lost to him now.

  Soon I’ll be able to take on a live adversary! Arviû had been practicing against straw targets and fighting lifeless dolls in an effort to improve his accuracy, but Païcalor had promised he could measure his strength against one of the guards soon. I don’t want to be given any easy options, either.

  Reaching the kitchen area, he collected some food.
As he ate, he liked to listen to others talking.

  The topic for discussion was the dorón ashont invasion. As far as Arviû could gather, there was a plan to attack the enemy encampment, but he could not catch all the details. They were also speaking of the lethal sickness that was receding, thanks to a loffran root infusion, even though there was a shortage of the plant; and then they spoke of Sinthoras and the recent surprise conviction.

  Arviû paid little attention to the content of these overheard conversations, concentrating rather on ascertaining the exact positions of the speakers within the room. He tried to assess the size of the speakers, whether they were seated or standing, how far away they were from him. These would be the details that could facilitate a successful dagger throw. The way their clothing rustled told him they wore simple fabric, little in the way of leather or metal; but some of them must have jewelry of some kind.

  Silver maybe? Tionium gives a fuller sound. Arviû enjoyed puzzling while he ate.

  As soon as he had cleared his plate, he made his way back to the training area. He wanted to improve his skills with the short staves.

  He also enjoyed working with the arm-blades Virssagòn had developed. The contraption consisted of metal tubes, padded on the side, and fastened to your forearm. Stable and erect blades pointing forward and back jutted outward from them. The blades were as long as two hands. Virssagòn had never stopped to explain how best to use them, so Arviû was finding out for himself. His initial tests had proved successful, but he had cut himself a number of times.

  With these, I need only make tiny movements to inflict stabs or cuts and I can block sword strokes, but it would not be much help if someone comes at me with an ax. While musing in this way, Arviû had taken a wrong turn. He could smell oiled leather, saddles and bridles and the coats of night-mares.

  That’s stupid of me! I’ve ended up in the stables. He knew exactly where he had gone wrong. Now, where’s the door? He tapped around with his stick to get his bearings.