Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  He felt hot despite the winter temperature. He was being pushed and shoved and no one seemed to respect his name or his rank. It was each to his own.

  Progress was so slow. It was an age before they had reached the first of the steps. He had no idea how much time had passed. One, two splinters of unendingness? He forced himself up the narrow stairs, reckoning he and Godànor were now perhaps a dozen paces above the ground.

  Looking back, he could see the wave flooding through Dsôn accompanied by the yellow cloud of gas; the hissing sound was audible even at this distance. Where the flood hit, whole buildings were dissolving. That is not ordinary river water!

  Before the river, walls, wood, whatever the material, disintegrated. Edifice after edifice was affected, as were the älfar in the streets. Every object. Every living creature. All was caught up in the flow, surrounded and liquefying. This was the process that was causing the clouds of gas.

  The first fumes reached the escaping crowds. Polòtain coughed. The smell was like sulfur: it made your eyes smart and your mouth burn . . . It’s acid! How can a river turn into acid?

  The älfar screamed in horror as they realized what fate had in store for them.

  Those at the base of the slope started to push and shove their way onto the path that meant safety. Pressure from below brought the first casualties, as those on the steps lost their balance and tumbled. Where they fell on the waiting throng below there were injuries and deaths.

  Polòtain grasped hold of Godànor and pushed his way up, his back pressed into the wall of rock. They were hardly making any progress. Ye gods of infamy! The whole city is dissolving!

  The yellowish liquid flowed on a wide path, as if savoring the destruction. The outermost fingers of the river reached the feet of the crowd. Älfar screamed out and fell. No one falling into the flood emerged again. Some tried to survive by clambering up on top of abandoned vehicles or up into the branches of trees, but there was no protection.

  Polòtain’s supposition proved true; it was indeed acid. He could see that quite clearly. Wagons disintegrated, night-mares struggled through the lethal mass as half skeletons, the flesh burned off their bones.

  The yellow clouds thickened, obscuring his view. He could not stop coughing. Every breath he took seemed to steal more air from his lungs. All around him the fleeing hordes were choking.

  Polòtain felt his senses leave him. His legs turned to jelly. “Help me, Godànor!” he groaned. He was near suffocation in the poisonous fumes; he slipped down despite Godànor’s grip. “Please! Please don’t let go of me!”

  He slipped out of his grandson’s hold, fell, and was kicked and trampled by strangers and forced aside. Some climbed over him, shoes struck him in the head and in his ribs. Someone stood on his wrist, fracturing it.

  Finally he rolled over the crumbling edge of the path and plunged down through the toxic mist until he crashed on to something solid. Through watering eyes he saw it was the roof of a coach that was floating in the yellow lake, foaming and fizzing as it dissolved.

  A large, glass barrel-like object drifted past; there were fflecx symbols on the side, but he could not work out what they meant. Is it them? Have the alchemancers diverted the river and poisoned it? I thought they were all dead?

  With a crunch and a crack the carriage split and the wreck tilted precariously.

  Next to him bodies fell into the acid; älfar who had fallen from the slope shrieked as they died in torture. The harsh biting fumes would ensure no one reached the safety of the top of the crater. Not a single inhabitant of Dsôn would survive this splinter of unendingness.

  Dsôn Faïmon’s Black Heart is lost! What has happened to the Inextinguishables? Polòtain’s hands had been in contact with the burning substance and his fingertips were hissing as they melted away, revealing the white bones. He screamed and coughed, spitting blood.

  The worst thing was the realization that his single-minded pursuit of Sinthoras through the courts had probably saved his sworn enemy’s life. If only Sinthoras had stayed, if only the hearing had taken longer, then at least he would have ended up in this lethal brew!

  Choking again, he fought for air. When I think of everything I have done! Is this my reward? I only wanted justice for Robonor! This is how I am repaid! His surroundings turned into a single yellow surface with no recognizable contours.

  Our gods have all abandoned us. Polòtain rolled over and dived headfirst and open-mouthed into the deadly acid lake so as to shorten his suffering.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), southeast of the Gray Mountains, Gwandalur,

  4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),

  winter.

  That night, Virssagòn drew close to the mountain where elves and dragons lived; since the confrontation with the lone elf-warrior he had no more contact with the enemy. He must be dead by now, even if the poison takes a little time. The fact he ran away from me will only have postponed his death.

  He was close to the foot of the mountain. The walls of rock rose sheer and sharp into the sky and pointed crags reared out of the stone. Sturdy trees had wound their roots around the rocks. It reminded him of the new tear of Inàste that had grown in the crater.

  I wonder where the cavern entrance is? Virssagòn began to work his way around the base of the mountain. He kept to the shadows so as not to be seen by any nearby sentries. His night-mare had been left in a nearby wood so that the creature’s red eyes would not betray his presence.

  This time he really wanted to succeed.

  He was dismayed at not having rid Girdlegard of all of its mages. Maybe I was just too slow in carrying out the plan? But I don’t see how I could have managed it any quicker; the distances were simply too great.

  Grok-Tmai had been the next name on his death list, but the magus had been forewarned by the deceitful Hianna, and Virssagòn had assumed there would be a trap, so he avoided that confrontation. Disposing of sorcerers was more or less impossible if the intended victims had prior knowledge of the attempt.

  If Morana had kept out of it and let me kill Hianna in the first place, I’d have been filling my trophy collection with bits of the other wizards, but I’ll make up for it by wiping out the elves.

  The Ishím Voróo barbarians he had recruited would be arriving from the southeast within the next splinter of unendingness, Virssagòn reckoned, and he would need them for the assault on the mountain; he had told them he was going to open up an entrance for them.

  Of course, that was a lie.

  His real intention was to find out whether the cold weather actually did prevent dragons from functioning. It did not matter that the barbarians would die, of course, and the test would give him valuable information about these scaled creatures.

  Dragons. Tark Draan is truly a cauldron of surprises. He tried to remember when he had heard of these airborne lizards last appearing in Ishím Voróo. In his own lifetime there certainly had not been any dragon issues—no serious altercations. His people avoided them wherever possible, knowing them to be devious and untrustworthy; their powerful wings made them unpredictable adversaries.

  I seem to recall one of our armies slew a dragon in the west of Ishím Voróo when the beast had tried to demand tribute. That must have been a dozen or more divisions of unendingness ago. Virssagòn spat. The elves do the same thing with the barbarians around here.

  He had verified the scouts’ reports on this matter: the peasants he had come across so far had spoken of the elves as a pestilence; they longed to be free of them, but did not have the courage to take up arms against them. Understandable.

  Having got a third of the way around the base of the mountain using the bushes and shrubs as cover, he saw the entrance: a gate big enough for a dragon to pass through. It was locked and had a yellow metal cladding to reinforce it. I’ll take a closer look.

  He went nearer and soon he could detect the relief pattern on the metal by starlight. On it, some kind of deity was creating the dragon and an elf simultaneo
usly. This presumably indicated that the elves were just as divine as the dragons they flew around on.

  It must be pure gold! There were precious gems set into the metal, testimony to the wealth of the elves. Diamonds sparkled in the moonlight, giving off rainbow shimmers. Virssagòn knew of races in Ishím Voróo who would happily go to war for the value of this gate.

  Above the gate there were broad arrow slits with firelight flickering through. The elves had fashioned the cliff by the entrance to look like a dragon: the gate formed a huge muzzle.

  A dragon cult: formed to worship the scaly creatures of light and the children of Sitalia. Virssagòn crouched low in the shadow of the mountain. Quite some elves!

  He looked up, scanning the rock face, searching for an opportunity to get inside. He could see light shining higher up on a platform. Those will be lamps for the sentries. Or . . . could that be where the dragons come in to land? Can they take off at night, I wonder?

  Those lamps could be a navigational aid; if so, the dragons were indeed capable of flight in the winter months.

  The next opening, again with a stone platform in front of it, was much farther up, above the gate, but he wouldn’t be able to climb that: his armor was heavy and hardly suitable for rock-climbing.

  Well, then, maybe I’ll get in through the apertures their archers fire from. That would only mean climbing a short way. He could not decide.

  If he were spotted inside the elf stronghold, there would be no chance of escape. He knew his own capabilities and weaknesses. He was no fool. He was not about to underestimate an enemy whose numbers he could not even guess at. Fools are always the first to die.

  He made his decision and began to make his way forward, darting from shadow to shadow. He did not wish to overuse his älfar powers at this stage. The bright snowfields surrounding the mountain were the worst possible surroundings for an undercover älf. Creating areas of shadow and spreading clouds of darkness would immediately attract unwelcome attention.

  As he reached the gate he listened carefully, taking only shallow breaths.

  There was no sound. The sentries above the gate were apparently still unworried, even though the Golden Plain had been invaded. A further example of the confidence the elves place in their dragons.

  Let’s get on. Virssagòn examined the immediate vicinity, looking for jutting sections and any cracks that would afford toeholds. He found a possible route up the cliff and made a start on the ascent.

  He was only a short way up when a piece of rock came away under his gauntlet.

  He twisted around as he fell and landed on his feet, absorbing the impact with a somersault. He had not made any noise as he fell and there was only a small crunch of snow as he landed.

  But the little landslide of stones that followed him alerted the sentries.

  Lamps approached the arrow slits and voices were heard. Searchlights shone down from the battlements.

  I am no mountaineer. Virssagòn had no option but to use his powers to avoid being spotted. He dimmed the elf lights, and enveloped himself in shadow as he pressed his body flat against the cliff.

  He heard a deep clattering sound and then the noise of eighteen bolts being drawn back. One half of the gate creaked open a little way. The elves had become wary and wanted to check to see what was happening outside.

  Virssagòn launched himself into the air and clung to the golden dragon claws on the decorative relief. He climbed two or three paces higher while the elf sentries below him stepped out through the gate. They will find my tracks and sound the alarm.

  He knew he had to get inside—the sentries had relieved him of the choice.

  He clambered sideways to reach the edge of the open gate in order to slip around to the inside. When the gate was closed he would be hanging above the sentries’ heads. He would only have to wait until they went away.

  The elves found his footprints and shouted to the bowmen in the alcoves above.

  Samusin, don’t let them see me! He maintained the aura of darkness he had surrounded himself with, but if they looked directly at him, or used strong torchlight, his presence would be revealed.

  Roving cones of light as wide as a tree canopy lit up the whole area, stamping dazzling circles on the snow. The searchlight beams wandered over the snow as the elves attempted to locate the intruder.

  Looking up, Virssagòn realized that rotating machines composed of many lamps and huge mirrors were producing these beams. Good job I didn’t decide to run away. I would not have got far.

  A second armed troop of elves passed below him, leaving the shelter of the mountain and following his prints. An älf in leather protective clothing would leave no tracks, but Virssagòn’s penchant for heavy armor meant his feet would sink into a soft surface such as snow.

  He continued on his way around the edge of the gate.

  The sentries withdrew into the mountain while the search party followed his tracks. The gate creaked slowly shut. Virssagòn had to make haste now if he was not to be squashed; it was no easy thing to get around the edge of the gate and he could feel no ornamentation on the other side to give him a handhold.

  The opening was getting very narrow.

  I’ll have to risk it, but if there’s nothing to grip on the inside, I’ll fall at their feet. He swung around to the back of the gate just as it clanged shut.

  A broad retaining timber that strengthened the gate structure provided the handhold he needed. He hung there swaying to and fro like a flag until he could pull himself up on to the horizontal wooden strut.

  The guards were not looking for him inside the complex. They moved off through a vast hall and disappeared through a side door. Virssagòn could hear them walking up some stairs.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. However, the incident would mean all the elves were alert and on their guard. He might have to wait several moments of unendingness before things calmed down again.

  But tomorrow the barbarians will be attacking. The elves will assume their intruder was a scout sent by the humans and they’ll forget about me. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to be patient. He looked around. I’d prefer somewhere else to wait, though. I’m too easy to spot up here.

  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 lamp
s 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.