Devastating Hate

  The sotgrîn lay where Arganaï had beheaded it, but his fire-bull was gone—all Arganaï could see was a pile of guts on the trampled, bloodied grass and a broken-off horn stuck in the ground. What does all this mean? Worbîn was an experienced battle-steed and always came off best in any fight. Nothing could have beaten him in such a short time, let alone have butchered him and carried off the carcass. What awful curse has touched this land?

  The young älf warrior got to his feet, dagger held pointing down. He staggered past the pile of intestines and followed the bloody track leading through the thicket. Red blood dripped on him from the dry foliage.

  He moved silently, alert for danger. The idea of meeting a predator able to dispatch and drag off an adult fire-bull as if it were a sack of feathers did not fill him with delight. And now he did not even have his sword for protection.

  The track brought him back to the place he had left his troops.

  His black eyes widened as he stepped out of the bushes: the grass had been trampled down and there was so much älfar blood on the ground and splashed on the leafless trees it was as if it had been poured out from buckets.

  There wasn’t a sound, or a trace of his companions—apart from the blood.

  His heart thumped painfully in his chest. He would not have wanted to admit it, but for the first time in his life he was experiencing true terror. It was urging him to save himself and flee, abandoning his men. Flee . . . from what?

  I can’t do that! What will I tell the benàmoi when he asks what happened here? Arganaï’s thoughts were jumbled. It was something to do with the pond, surely? Was there a creature living in the water? Had it come out and killed them all?

  He noticed a second track and made his way forward. There were marks everywhere he could not identify: hoof-prints and deep furrows filled with blood. And then he found pieces of älfar armor, shards of metal, and severed locks of brown hair. Despite the destruction, the air was perfectly still.

  Arganaï was overcome with fear once more.

  He halted, planting the toe of his raised boot behind him, instead of in front. He started to withdraw as slowly and quietly as possible so as not to attract any attention from the creature that could kill and dismember älfar and fire-bulls as if they were toys.

  There’s nothing I can do on my own. He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. I have to find the benàmoi and make my report. I don’t care if they think I’m a coward.

  He never stopped to rest, only once to take a drink and to throw off some of his heavy leather gear. It doesn’t matter what I look like. I’ve just got to get back in one piece.

  Sometimes he sensed he was being followed, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing and nobody to be seen. He put it down to the stress he was under.

  Without his fire-bull, and even though he kept up a steady pace, it took him until sundown to reach the place where he had agreed to meet the benàmoi. His legs were killing him and he fought for breath as he struggled up to the vantage point. He saw Phinoïn, his commanding officer, leaning against a rock.

  Arganaï staggered up to him with an overwhelming sense of relief. “Phinoïn!” he gasped. “I—in the northwest . . . at the border with the fflecx . . .”

  He fell silent with shock at the sight of his benàmoi.

  Someone had thrust iron bolts through the armor at shoulders, breast and neck, anchoring him to the rock so that he appeared to be patiently waiting for his scouts to return. A pool of his own blood spread out at his feet.

  Suddenly, the commander he had assumed dead saw him and gave a groan. “Run. You must warn Dsôn! If you don’t—”

  Violet-colored light fell on Phinoïn’s face, coming from behind the scout. The benàmoi’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to utter a blood-curdling scream.

  What . . . ? Arganaï was about to vault to one side but mid-turn he was dealt a blow on the back that had him hurled to the ground. The impact knocked him unconscious.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,

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

  summer.

  That’s a lot of material. Carmondai was sitting in the accommodation the nostàroi had given him surrounded by loose pages that had been drawn or written on.

  Notes, lightning sketches, detailed drawings, resonant turns of phrase . . . it had all resulted from that evening session with the nostàroi, and it was all waiting for him to put it into some sort of order.

  He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. He wanted to recall every visual detail of that important meeting.

  Each of them had been sent away with specific tasks that they could perform better than any other älf, and Carmondai should have been starting on the preparations for his journey: there were lists to make, things to pack . . . But his muse demanded that he be creative: he was obsessed by the image of Horgàta raising the cup to her lips.

  She is incomparable. He opened his eyes and grabbed a pen and some paper. He would not be able to rest until he had completed the drawing in his mind.

  As he worked he became more and more absorbed. Soon he moved away from the table and went over to perch on the uncomfortable bed. He adjusted the lines, rubbing out and drawing anew until he had perfected the image of her face. She was smiling gently as she sipped from her cup of wine.

  That will sell well. Carmondai propped the picture up and stood well back to observe his work. Yes, not bad at all. Likenesses of our heroines will be much in demand, and that will help me fill my empty coffers.

  He went over to the table and drank some water, letting his gaze roam.

  The chamber ceiling was only just high enough for him, but all the furniture was undersized; if he lay full length on the bed he knew his legs would hang over the end. In fact, he would probably do better to sleep on the floor.

  I miss home. I hope there’ll be some houses somewhere in Tark Draan with a bit more room. Carmondai put the mug of water down and suddenly remembered that he had a meeting he should be at. Curses. Casting a final glance at his drawing of Horgàta, he picked up his notebooks and hurried out of the room. But she was worth it.

  Carmondai looked carefully at the corridor he was in; without a guide like Morana, he’d managed to get hopelessly lost.

  I’m sure I’ve been here before. He knew he had an excellent sense of direction above ground, but these corridors all looked exactly the same. Even the carvings on the walls were incredibly similar.

  Fortunately, his wanderings had given him the opportunity to be a secret observer to an óarco celebration. From some kind of naturally occurring rock balcony, he watched as his allies enjoyed the groundlings’ extra-strength beer. Their celebration was worlds away from the sophisticated revelries of the älfar: drunken óarcos lay under the tables, others were scuffling and fighting, some of the females were spreading their legs for whoever came out the winner, while some were stealing jewelry from the ones that were asleep; trombones and horns screeched, drums and cymbals crashed—you could not call it music—and the stink had been something else!

  As he’d watched, Carmondai’s contempt for the green-skinned monsters had reached record levels. When he was back home he would show his fellow älfar sketches of the beasts to make them appreciate what a good idea it had been to entice these creatures away from Ishim Voróo.

  Curse those wretched groundlings! They must have deliberately constructed these tunnels in order to confuse. Carmondai came to a crossroads he recognized. He contemplated a moment before taking a different option to the one he had before, but his choice was more out of desperation than conviction.

  He was really looking for Arviû in order to pick his brains about archery, but if he did not find the way soon he would miss him: the master bowman would not be in the Gray Mountains for much longer. Who knows when I’ll have another chance?

  Carmondai started to jog.

  Though he had told Morana that his night-mare had departed into endi
ngness, he had made the story up so as not to look a fool in the eyes of the important älfar: he had actually never possessed such a creature. He had been out of funds for too long to have ever bought anything so expensive. Only the wealthy could afford night-mares, and only those in the army were given them. He was neither.

  His paintings were popular, but they did not fetch a high price. That is why this campaign to Tark Draan was so important to him: it was just the thing for his art. He could pick up the odd trophy and find plenty of inspiration that could translate into money later.

  The tunnel was slowly opening out. It led into a hall where there were boxes, barrels, chests and sacks piled high against the walls. Some had been opened, and in the faint light of some shimmering blue moss he saw vegetable roots, spices and salt scattered on the ground.

  I wonder where the wretched mountain maggots kept their gold?

  Something whizzed past his nose and collided with a metal object that clanged and smashed before he even knew what had happened.

  Turning his head, he saw a long black arrow embedded in the padlock of one of the chests. The lock had burst open under the impact.

  “You’re late, Carmondai. We were meeting at the seventh splinter of unendingness,” someone called, the voice echoing. “I have all but completed my practice.”

  Carmondai turned around and saw Arviû’s silk-clad figure at the other end of the hall, he raised his arm in greeting and strode over to the archer.

  He’s more than 400 paces away. Even with my own excellent eyesight it would have been difficult to make out such a small padlock from that far back. Four servants were standing by Arviû holding quivers stacked in readiness. Arrayed around them were stands containing various different types of bow; some three paces long, others as short as half a pace. Arviû himself held a tall, steel bow that glinted in the torchlight.

  This is going to be fun. Carmondai approached the archer and bowed. “My greetings, master of the—”

  Arviû dismissed his words with a hand gesture. “Masters of any art do not use titles when they address each other. We know who we are. Forgive me if I was abrupt with you at our first meeting, I think I was just surprised. It won’t happen again.” He paused. “You wanted to learn about archery?” Arviû’s blue eyes were smiling at him now. “But doesn’t every älf know how to use a bow?”

  “Well, I know how to shoot,” said Carmondai, staring at the range of weapons with curiosity. “I could hit a target, but I’d never have been able to destroy that padlock.”

  Arviû smiled. “How do you know that was what I was aiming at? My target might have been the leather strap you carry your folder with.”

  Carmondai glanced at his right shoulder. The end of the strap had been cut clean off.

  Arviû handed his steel bow to a young älf, who put it away. “I was aiming for the strap and for the padlock, Carmondai. And if you ask me why, it’s because I can.” He pointed to a black, varnished bow as tall as an älf and a servant brought it over to him.

  So he’s not conceited at all. Carmondai could not help grinning.

  “I know what you’re thinking; you think I’m bragging, I can read that smile of yours.” Arviû was enjoying himself. “Some who have shown me a lack of respect have paid for it with their lives.”

  Carmondai stopped being so cheery. He opened his folder and took out the pressed charcoal-dust writing implement he was so proud of having invented. “That was a very impressive shot. Could you tell me why you use a steel bow? What is the string made of?”

  “I usually use the steel bow if I don’t know what the climate will be like in a certain area, as it’s not badly affected by weather variations like a bone or wooden bow would be.

  “The string is silver wire and just as resistant to changes in the weather as the main structure, but I use natural strings more often.” Arviû caressed the black bow. “This one is made of many parts glued together. It has a much greater range than the steel bow.”

  “How far will it shoot?”

  “With a bit of practice, about a thousand paces in the normal shooting posture, but there’s another method. If you lie down on your back and use your feet to support the bow while you pull back the bowstring with both hands it shoots much farther. Unfortunately it’s not very accurate, but in battle there’s a lot to be said for sending a dense shower of arrows down on the enemy before they begin to fight.” His face took on a contemptuous expression. “I don’t use that method as it’s inelegant and clumsy. I teach it to others, though; one never knows when it might come in useful, but there’d have to be a real emergency for me to employ it myself.”

  Carmondai had never heard of this type of archery. “And how far could that method get you?”

  “As long as the bowstring doesn’t snap, between 1,500 and 1,800 paces. It’s a good ploy for a surprise attack on an army. The best of the barbarians’ bows can’t get farther than 500 paces.” Arviû was enjoying Carmondai’s astonishment. “I know you have never been a passionate archer.”

  “I was certainly never very good at it.” Carmondai’s gaze took in the various bows, some of which were asymmetrical. No untrained älf would be able to use those ones. “The nostàroi said you were in charge of the long-distance warriors.”

  “I trained the benàmoi and advised them on the kinds of bows and arrows to bring on campaign.” Arviû went over to the quivers and selected a few samples. “Some of these are traditional älfar arrows, but I’ve improved the design. Just because something has been around for hundreds of divisions of unendingness doesn’t mean it has to be good.” He showed Carmondai the shafts. “Look at the fletching here. We used to use eagle feathers because of the birds’ noble natures, but I use black goose feathers and cut them into shape. They are stronger, so the arrow’s flight remains true. I don’t care if my arrows are noble; I want them to be lethal.”

  Carmondai sketched as he listened.

  Arviû showed him various arrowheads. “I had the best smiths in Ocizûr work on these for a division of unendingness until I was satisfied. Nobody else can supply that standard. If you save money on the arrowheads, you reduce the effectiveness of your army, then you expend more effort and risk losing more of your own ranks.”

  Carmondai made a note of what he was told.

  “Look here; these are the main shapes we employ. First you have the narrow shaft with a four-sided arrow tip. I designed them on the principle of the cutleaf tree foliage—they are excellent for cutting through light armor.” He turned it in his hand, then picked up the next example. “Then we have the barbed arrowhead, which is nice and slim, and then the forked version: useful for causing heavy bleeding in an enemy when you’re dealing with opponents not wearing armor. Or you can bring down their mounts with these, of course. Then we have the smooth, simple variety with a long, straight tip, but they have more weight in them to take care of those in heavy armor. All the others are variations on these basic shapes.”

  Arviû was getting carried away with his own skills and artistry and Carmondai did not want to spend the rest of the present moment of unendingness listening to the archer’s monologue. “Right. I’ve got all that. Could you tell me about the fighting procedure?”

  “Have you forgotten everything?”

  “No.” Carmondai cleared his throat to cover his discomfort at this question. “But I want to hear it from you.”

  “I understand. In combat, it’s all a question of what situation you are in. I’ve trained the long-distance warriors to be adaptable: each one has a horse, two longbows and one short one, eight dozen arrows with interchangeable arrowheads and light body armor for optimum mobility—armor like my own. They carry a container with utron viper poison, in case an opponent proves too tough.” Arviû raised his arm to show Carmondai the forearm guard and a ring he wore on his thumb. “I don’t just use my fingers to pull back the bowstring: sometimes I use my thumb, too, and the ring helps to protect the skin. My pupils have all learned this method; they know it
helps them if they’re keeping up a prolonged bout of shooting. It’s another tactical advantage we have over others.” He replaced the bow in the stand. “Any further questions? However infinite, my time is precious.” He turned around and instructed his servants to pack away the equipment. “I’ll be leaving soon, to carry out the will of our nostàroi.”

  Carmondai realized the archer was offended. Perhaps I upset him when I interrupted him just now? “One more thing: this armor, it’s made from some sort of textile; is it really sturdy enough?”

  Arviû gave him the sort of look you would give a child who had asked a stupid question. “That’s another thing you ought to know yourself, Carmondai.”

  “But it will be better in your own words.”

  Arviû’s face showed scorn as he continued his discourse. “What you see here is the top covering, worn over a long surcoat composed of many layers that are glued together. These provide flexibility and provide plenty of protection against sword thrusts and small missiles.” His smile was cold. “An archer will always be more concerned about his own ease of movement. That’s what will enable him to knock an enemy out before he has a chance to strike.” He ran his hand over the fabric. “Soft silk can withstand steel if you know how to conduct yourself. End of story.” With a wordless gesture the älf strode off, followed by his retinue.

  Carmondai watched the älf leave the hall in silence, then finished off his drawings and put his notebooks and writing implement away.

  He paused for a moment and thought carefully—recently he had been confronted with many things that reminded him of his past, and he did not want to let the past affect his behavior in the present—but his spirit was undisturbed. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Carmondai sighed. The old life, I’d like to forget all about it. He let his gaze wander across the hall one last time. He went back to the storage chests wondering what else Arviû had been aiming at.

  The archer’s arrows had destroyed every lock. He had not missed a single target.

  Carmondai wrenched the shaft out of one of the chests. The arrow tip was designed to penetrate metal. With one arrowhead like that an archer could pierce and kill three or even four barbarians all at the same time. I’ve heard that’s how Arviû tests out his modifications: aiming at prisoners in body armor.