Devastating Hate

  By all the gods of infamy! Carmondai was trembling uncontrollably. He was so close that if he stretched out his hand his fingers would be right inside that cloud. His hypersensitive imagination showed him how his flesh would drop away from his bones and his soul would be sucked up by the demon. The tentacles grabbed for him . . . “No!” he shrieked, hiding behind Caphalor and shutting his eyes.

  “I cannot promise we shall have started the campaign before winter, but our preparations are coming on apace. Our spies are out exploring Tark Draan so that when we invade we will—”

  whispered the cloud smugly.

  Carmondai could no longer bear the words. He cowered and stuck his fingers in his ears to keep it out, but he could still hear the demon’s words. I must get out of here!

 

  Carmondai waited several eye-blinks, but the demon said nothing. He opened his eyes carefully—and saw the nostàroi. Caphalor’s expression was somber, but the fury lines had disappeared. “I was . . . it was s-s-so . . .” Carmondai stammered, trying to cobble together an explanation for his cowardly conduct. “The tea . . . by all the gods of infamy, you should have seen what I saw! That demon is worse than—” He raised his arms and uttered an involuntary sound.

  “If a poet is lost for words it’s obviously not a good sign. I should not have served you that tea without asking first.” Caphalor laid a hand on his shoulder in forgiveness. “Go and rest. I must send out messengers to bring Sinthoras back here.” He left the room.

  What have we got ourselves into with that demon? Would our own forces not have been sufficient to take the Stone Gateway without his help? Carmondai sank down on the nearest chair, burying his head in his hands.

  He sat there for a long time, trying to sort out his thoughts and waiting for the after effects of the tea to recede.

  When he felt steadier, he reached for his writing folder and put down what he had experienced in words.

  Every now and again he took some of the herbal drink Caphalor had been drinking. His throat felt dry and sore. Then he noticed that the goblet contained diluted thujona juice.

  Surely he must have seen the same things I did if he was drinking that stuff, too? How could he bear it? Carmondai could only think that the depths of despair Caphalor had been forced to explore in his grief must have been worse than anything the demon could offer.

  CHAPTER IV

  Have you heard of the Wandering Towers?

  They withstand storms with their special powers

  and can snap thick iron bars in two.

  Three of them to kill a thousand of you!

  To deal them death only poison will cope.

  Miss your chance and there’s no more hope!

  Nursery rhyme The Towers that Walk

  1st verse

  Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), former kingdom of the fflecx,

  4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle)

  late summer.

  Arganaï did not know where he was or who had taken him prisoner.

  He had been given brackish water to drink that had probably come from a puddle. Some kind of food the texture of bread had been thrust into his mouth, but it was not bread: it stung his torn lips and seemed to wriggle in his mouth when it was moistened with saliva. But it stopped the hunger.

  He lay on a dry earth floor, tied up and blindfolded. To judge from the animal smell—and the sound—he had been put in a hole in the ground, perhaps some predator’s burrow? Arganaï guessed it might once have been a sotgrîn’s home.

  He had been forced to relieve himself in his clothes and every couple of moments of unendingness he was hosed down with hot water. This humiliating treatment made him hate his torturers still more.

  He racked his brains to try and work out who might be holding him captive.

  It could not be the fflecx; this was not the way they fought and treated enemies. And anyway, the fflecx had all been wiped out. Barbarians or óarcos were just as unlikely: none of their warriors would have been able to kill and dismember a grown fire-bull. It could be some of the huge monsters like trolls, demi-giants, ogres . . .

  But the noises I heard—it doesn’t make sense. Arganaï could not stop himself thinking about the attackers. That unearthly roar! And what about the violet-colored lights?

  The earth shook around him and bits of soil rained down. At regular intervals there were vibrations that felt like the impact of a battering ram.

  They are driving posts into the ground. Arganaï sat up and slid back up against the side of the hole. The älf had spent some time exploring his dungeon carefully, even though he had had to crawl, worm-like, to do so, and he had discovered that his prison cell was around two paces by four, and from the way sounds echoed, was probably about two and a half- to three paces high. The exit was blocked by what felt like a huge stone. He had come to no useful conclusion and his torturers had given him no opportunity to escape.

  So he would have to sit and wait.

  He listened out once more.

  The impacts were not so strong and not so frequent now; but there was a steady drip of water that had not been there before. Some of the drops landed directly on him.

  Does that mean it’s raining? Arganaï imagined the water seeping down through the earth into his prison. I hope it won’t be just a short shower! Maybe the earth walls might soften . . . Hope welled up: he might yet be able to get away.

  The slow dripping sound changed to distinct trickles—the weather was on his side!

  His breeches and back became wetter as his dungeon was thoroughly soaked. The earth slowly grew softer. Arganaï kicked against the wall and his foot went straight through. He redoubled his efforts until he judged he had made an opening he would be able to squeeze through.

  He had no idea where the hole led to, of course. He rolled around and stuck his head through, listening hard.

  He could hear the noise of rushing water coming from below and it was cooler than in his cell. Had he discovered some underground stream? It might enable him to escape. Or it might drown him.

  And how far down is it, I wonder? He used his shoulder to nudge a lump of clay into the hole, but the noise of rushing water was too loud for him to hear it fall.

  Gods of infamy, I place my life in your hands. Arganaï turned around again and worked his way, feet first, into the hole, sliding over the muddy soil until he fell through the air and landed in icy water.

  The current dragged him along.

  Arganaï did not know which way was up. He held his breath for as long as he could as he scraped against rock walls and barged against stones. Finally something snagged and pulled away his blindfold.

  He still could not see; it was pitch black in the water. The bands holding his wrists had caught on something and did not give way, making him a prisoner in the river.

  Not like this! Not here! Arganaï lashed out, his feet meeting resistance. He pushed as hard as he could.

  The icy water had numbed his muscles and was forcing its way into his mouth, trying to get him to take it into his lungs. The need for air was unbearable and he saw colored rings in front of his eyes . . .

  There was a crack and Arganaï screamed with pain as his left hand fractured and slid out of the bindings. As he screamed the river forced itself into his open mouth.

  The älf coughed and spluttered, swallowing yet more water while the river dragged him on. Then he was falling through air again. He landed on a hard surface and vomited the water out, fighting for breath. He had landed beside a small waterfall that emerged from the rocky slope before heading vertically downward; if he had fallen a few paces farther, Arganaï would have ended up at the bottom
of the cliff. After a while he noticed that he had exited the tunnel into daylight.

  I . . . am . . . alive! He looked at his injured hand. The restraints had broken the joint of his thumb and the bone fragment was visible, sticking up through the skin. If that bone had not given way he would have drowned in the stream.

  He slid over to the rock wall on his knees, where a thicket of night fern with its large black fronds would hide him.

  The pain was bearable if he gritted his teeth hard. He remembered similar discomfort the first time a fire-bull had thrown him, breaking his right arm. It will heal.

  He raised his head to risk a look over the top of the fern.

  He found himself on a sort of shelf, less than two paces wide, underneath an outcrop. He looked along it: there was a path there, and the foliage would give him sufficient cover as he moved along should his enemy turn up unexpectedly. He paused a moment to remove the bindings around his ankles, then moved off.

  The rock shelf led him to a flat piece of ground the fflecx had once inhabited. There were strange, brightly colored houses with gnome heads painted on them and tubes and pipes made from copper; wood and glass had been used in constructions that joined the buildings together chaotically. There was no sign of any inhabitants.

  I would have been surprised to see any. There were no signs of violent destruction, or fire here, but the gnome-like creatures had all been killed—there was no reason to suppose there were any left.

  He did not bother to search the buildings and workshops of the poison-blenders. It was much more important to find out about the mysterious creatures he had heard while imprisoned in his dungeon.

  He moved as fast as he dared through the deserted village, his injured hand throbbing painfully. Immediately behind the dwellings a small forest began. He slipped into the trees and made his way through the undergrowth parallel to the path.

  There was another rumbling sound and the earth beneath him shook; he heard timber crashing to the ground.

  They are felling trees! Arganaï hurried to see what was happening. With the noise that the creatures were making there was no need for him to keep silent as he moved. The effort made his hand hurt badly; next time there was a crash of falling trees he permitted himself a groan.

  Rounding a corner, Arganaï reached a vantage point and heard a dull roar. That’s exactly what I heard before something felled me! He made his way to the edge of the clearing cautiously.

  Suddenly, all was silent. It was as if the creatures had noticed he was nearby. All work stopped, birdsong was audible and a light breeze rustled the leaves on the trees.

  Arganaï saw great tree trunks that had been felled, their branches removed. Wood fragments showed they had been hacked down with axes—and not with the small axes barbarians or älfar would wield, either.

  Arganaï crept slowly out from concealment and raced over the clearing, going from one tree stump to the next until he found one he thought he could climb to get a better view.

  From his new vantage point he could see how big the clearing was: a broad path of felled trees had been hewn through the forest.

  So where are they? They must be hiding somewhere. Arganaï jumped down off the tree stump and continued on his way. The cleared path led southeast toward Dsôn Faïmon. By all that’s unholy, what are they up to?

  Less than twenty paces in front of him one of the trees shuddered as if it were being cut down. The branches shook and the foliage trembled, and some leaves drifted to the ground. There was a renewed thud, accompanied by a dull roar and then the tree’s natural anchor gave way and the trunk snapped with a loud crash.

  Arganaï sprang to one side just as the broad canopy of the tree smashed down exactly where he had been standing. He quickly hid in the branches, spying out from between the leaves. Where are you?

  But again, he could see nothing.

  It seemed that his injury was eager to cause maximum pain and he was unable to stop a loud intake of breath.

  Rapid footsteps thundered in his direction.

  Did they hear me? Arganaï ducked down and saw a huge shadow wielding a mighty ax the length of a grown älf.

  No! He lay flat and rolled over to the right.

  The ax blade whistled through the foliage, splitting branch from trunk, then buried itself in the earth by his foot and was yanked back up. There was a loud roar and a violet-colored light that illuminated the leaves he hid under. Then the ax blows continued to rain down. Arganaï slithered toward the end of the tree like a snake, desperate to avoid the blade that was being wielded untiringly, slicing through even the thickest of the branches and splitting the trunk itself.

  Arganaï dived out from under the tree and ran faster than he had ever run in his life.

  He raced along the cleared path, realizing that his speed and flexibility would give him the best chance if he took this direct route. He never once looked back. Fear that he might stumble if he did so and thus end up back in the power of the unknown monsters kept him going. The knowledge that they had felled these enormous trees by hand only served to increase his terror. The Inextinguishables must be told! They—

  A dull whizzing sound warned him and he dodged to the right,

  It was not a moment too soon: an ax only just missed him before it buried itself into the nearest tree. The pace-long blade was thicker than his hand was wide.

  Arganaï left the cleared path and ran into open country. He could see a few wooden palisades erected by the fflecx had remained untouched by the fire that had destroyed the rest. But that was not what astonished him now.

  For the first time he saw the alien creatures that chased him. They were tall and broad, and some of them wore armor that made them appear broader still, while others wore nothing but a short leather apron. Their skin, Arganaï saw, was pale gray and their bodies were extremely muscular. Their faces terrified him. Strong-jawed mouths held protruding needle-sharp canine teeth, their heads were bald, bony and hard, their yellow-veined eyes violet and they took in air through three holes in the middle of their ugly faces. At about four paces in height, none of them was shorter than a demi-giant. Two of them had two humps on their backs, as if they were starting to grow wings.

  They were all working at splitting the tree trunks and binding them together into rafts or mobile defenses. Their movements were swift and adroit, a quality that differentiated them from all the other outsize creatures that Arganaï knew of. Over to the west, a former fflecx dwelling had greenish-orange smoke rising up as if the alchemancers were still at their wicked poison-brewing.

  It did not take Arganaï long to come to the only reasonable conclusion: they are planning to cross the defense moat and attack us!

  In calmer times the mere thought of an enemy crossing the huge defense canal would make anyone laugh out loud. Sometimes, of a winter evening, älfar would gather and tell tales of roving barbarians or hordes of half-crazed óarcos attempting to cross the cleared strip of land that bordered the water. No boat intended for the crossing had ever made it to the banks of the river. Catapults manned by älfar soldiers were an excellent defense. No single outside force in the whole of Ishím Voróo had ever reached Dsôn Faïmon.

  These creatures reminded Arganaï of a legend. It told of a people that the Inextinguishables had to defeat with trickery because they would have outclassed the älfar in conventional warfare.

  Defeat . . . But he had always understood they had been so defeated there was not one left alive. By all the powers of infamy! Could these be—

  He heard a loud roar behind him and the creatures raised their heads. Purple eyes stared directly at him.

  Arganaï stopped running and took a step back. These creatures would certainly run as fast as he could; he would only stand a chance of avoiding recapture if he could be more nimble and quick on his feet.

  The first of them grabbed their tools and raced over; heavily armored creatures swarmed toward him from all sides, attempting a pincer movement.

  I’ve got
to get out of here! Arganaï raced off, going south, where there seemed to be fewer of the enemy.

  But his body was letting him down: his legs were giving way and he was fighting for breath. He had to find somewhere to hide to get his strength back before he could continue his flight.

  O gods of infamy, can’t you stop up their ears and shut their eyes for them? Make them run straight past me! Arganaï hurled himself into the undergrowth and buried himself in the pile of dead leaves between two fallen trees. He shut his eyes and breathed quietly.

  And waited.

  And waited . . .

  In the middle of the night Arganaï shot up in pain.

  I fell asleep!

  The moon was shining down on him through the foliage and his right hand was burning like fire. The filthy water and the earth he had rolled in had caused the wound to fester.

  But pain means you are still alive.

  They didn’t find me! Arganaï pushed his way out, listened hard and made his way cautiously forward, always stopping to listen out . . . Ye gods of infamy! You have indeed protected me. I shall make offerings to you.

  He stood and began to run south again, bathed in the friendly silver light of the stars.

  He stopped to eat some berries and roots he found along his way, then took a drink from a small stream. He kept looking behind him, fearing that the huge monsters were on his tracks.

  By the evening he had reached the edge of Dsôn.

  Not long! Letting out a sigh of relief he continued his journey, sure that the watch would have seen him coming by now. He imagined the orders being given to get the catapults ready.

  Exhausted, Arganaï managed to raise his uninjured hand in a wave . . . then he heard a dull roar behind him.

  He dropped to the ground and rolled quickly to the side.

  A viciously barbed spear, twice as long as he was tall, flew over his head and embedded itself in the sandy soil. It had a ring at one end with a rope attached for instant retrieval of the weapon.