Devastating Hate Read Free Page B

well known.” He turned to go. “You are most welcome to come to my workshop if you’d like to do some sketches. The dwarf anatomy is quite instructive; it might be useful knowledge for future battles.”
    “Future battles?” Carmondai exchanged glances with Morana. “I thought we’d defeated them all.”
    “No. Not yet,” Durùston answered. “A few stubborn bastions remain, deep in the Gray Mountains. The main victory is ours, of course, but groundlings are tough. We’ll have dwarves to deal with for quite some time, mark my words.” He gave the signal to move on. “You are welcome any time,” he said again, as he followed behind the cart.
    “Thank you,” Carmondai called after him, then he stowed his notebook once more and went back to the night-mare, allowing Morana to help him up. “What did he mean, do you think?” he asked.
    They moved off. “Just what he said: there are still some isolated pockets of groundling families—they are quite stubborn, but they won’t hold out for long.” Her words sounded confident, arrogant, almost—as if the matter were of no consequence. Of course, it wasn’t for their armies.
    They rode in silence through the underground realm that had so recently fallen into älfar hands. Spattered bloodstains lined the walls: dark-red reminders of the original occupants of these mountain tunnels. Durùston must have removed all the bodies.
    After some time they arrived in an area where the dwarf runes carved on the walls had been smashed with hammers, and älfar banners and flags, prominently displaying the insignia of the nostàroi, hung fromthe high vaulted ceilings: to be forgotten was the fate of those defeated in war.
    Carmondai looked at the ceiling. Even if he was not necessarily anxious at the thought of a mountain’s worth of solid stone above his head, he was not exactly at ease. Back in Riphâlgis, his own house gave unrestricted views over a wide valley and he loved the open vistas. Here he felt constrained, as if buried alive. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
    “That’s where we are heading,” said Morana, pointing to a massive gate made of gold—its carved decorations had also been destroyed: hammered flat or levered off, and now four älfar guards flanked the gateway. “It used to be one of their throne rooms, I think, but the nostàroi live there now.” A young älf hurried up and led their stallion off. The guards at the entrance stood aside to let them through.
    Carmondai’s heart started to race. He was not properly dressed to meet the nostàroi and there was no time to go and change. But on the other hand, he did not want to give them the impression that he cared about his apparel—an artist did not have to feel in any way inferior to a warrior. And I want them to know I have come because I wish to be here, and not because they have summoned me.
    When he walked into the vast hall, he could see tall five-sided columns rising up into the darkness and five älfar in the middle of the room, sitting at a stone table laid for a banquet.
    It was clear that Sinthoras and Caphalor, side by side at the head of the table, held equal status as joint commanders. Carmondai did not recognize the other three, but that was no surprise: he had long given up a warrior’s life for the sake of art, so he had no idea who was currently in favor. They look impressive, nearly as fine as the nostàroi themselves.
    As an artist he had learned to focus on tiny distinctive details when observing people or objects closely. He grasped immediately that this was an unusual gathering.
    The armor worn by the brown-haired älf on his right, for example, was of incomparable quality. It was thicker than was usual, but did not look like it would restrict the wearer’s movements, though the decorative sharpened rivets on the breastplate and over the shoulder and backarea would probably mean he wouldn’t be able to lean back very comfortably. Two long swords rested on his