Devastating Hate Read Free Page A

óarcos, who protested vociferously, dodging the night-mare’s snapping teeth. Lightning flashes played around the stallion’s fetlocks, sparks scorching the ground and an occasional óarco leg.
    Morana headed for a smaller gateway guarded by two impressively armed warriors that was free of gathering crowds. It must only be available for älfar use .
    These gatekeepers saluted briefly and let them pass.
    Morana slowed her night-mare as they moved through the passage; the walls threw the sound of its hooves back to them.
    Carmondai looked around and smiled at the groundlings’ crude art. Their wall sculptures demonstrated an intention to create something beautiful, but their clumsy dwarf hands were never suited to delicate work.
    “When did you arrive?” Morana asked.
    “Today: I couldn’t get away from Riphâlgis any earlier. I admit that I’m furious to have missed the storming of the stronghold, but I did get to hear the speeches. And now I’m to be the guest of the nostàroi.”
    “You would have loved it. It was the best battle even I have ever seen!” Morana guided her night-mare through the right-hand opening. Their heads nearly touched the vaulted ceiling.
    Carmondai noted the chiseled runes but could not read them. As primitive as all the rest of it. “I know,” he sighed. “I had no end of trouble with my night-mare and then of course it decided to depart into endingness just as I was on my way here.”
    Her stallion snorted and they came to a cross-tunnel where they had to wait; a group of älfar in leather aprons were carting dwarf cadavers away. When they saw the riders they moved back to let them pass.
    I want to see what they’re doing. “Wait for me.” He slid down and moved over to the workers.
    With a mixture of disgust and fascination, he looked at the gross, pale bodies of their enemies closely. He saw that each had been stabbed neatly through the heart. They had not fallen in battle. They’ve not got the slightest bit of refinement about them. It’s as if their god was just experimenting: getting his hand in before creating something to be proud of. A second cart carried barrels of sloshing liquid; a smell of stone and metal indicated it was dwarf blood.
    He greeted the älfar and took out his notebook. “What are you doing with this?”
    “We are preparing them according to instructions.” One of the älfar answered, looking puzzled. “Have you been sent by the nostàroi to supervise?”
    “This is Carmondai, master of word and image,” Morana said. “He is sending a report to Dsôn Faïmon about what’s happening here in the Gray Mountains.”
    “Carmondai?” A gray-haired älf bowed his head. “I am an admirer of your art. I never thought I would have the honor of meeting you. My name is Durùston.”
    Durùston! Carmondai knew the name. He was a sculptor from Dsôn and well known for his stela carved from metal-clad bone and preserved intestines. Anyone who was anyone would have one of these commemorative slabs displayed in his home. “Greetings. You are indeed known to me.” He indicated the piles of corpses. “Will you be using these in your next works?”
    Durùston smiled. “Parts of them. I asked the nostàroi for permission to use any groundling remains that weren’t needed for anotherpurpose.” He pointed down the corridor. “I’ve set up a workshop in an old forge. My slaves and my apprentices are processing the cadavers: bones and tendons for sculptures, blood and skin for inks and pigments, hair and beards for paintbrushes. But really their beard hair is too coarse for delicate work—we have to boil it in vinegar to soften it—and then there’s the transport through Ishím Voróo. I’m not sure it’s really worth it . . . it might even be better to sell it for scrubbing-brushes.”
    “A tradesman now?” Carmondai asked, with a laugh.
    Durùston looked embarrassed. “I sometimes do think of the times to come when my name might no longer be so