Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  The only good thing about his enforced return to the Black Heart was that he would be seeing his beloved once more and would be able to spend time with her. Openly.

  The group moved on to the broad Bone Tower approach, a continuation of the radial arm Shiimal they had been riding through. This was where Caphalor was from. Sinthoras was surprised to see that although plenty of slaves were about, only very few älfar were to be seen. They were all holding cloths over their noses and mouths and some of them swung small smoking incense holders.

  “What’s wrong?” Sinthoras asked Verànor. “Are our people not allowed to be out in the open?”

  “I expect the sickness has spread,” was the response. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “What sickness?”

  “It started with the arrival of the dorón ashont. People think they have something to do with it. An älf who escaped from them in Ishím Voróo came here to warn us and was the first to get sick and die. After him, it was the guards who had shared his quarters in barracks.” Verànor tied a scarf around the lower half of his face. “They must have infected him with something and deliberately allowed him to come back to Dsôn.”

  That will be their revenge for the poisoned wine the Inextinguishables sent them. Instead of poison they have sent a plague. What a perfidious response! “If the enemy is currently stationed in the old fflecx territory, could it be possible that the älf who returned had been in contact with their toxic potions?”

  Verànor thought for a while. “Possibly, but I think it’s more likely that this is a cunning enemy plan. I don’t think it’s coincidence.” They had arrived in front of Sinthoras’s house. “You can stay here, but we’ll be posting guards as long as there are charges against you.”

  Sinthoras was aware that he had been allowed the privilege of house arrest because of his services to the state. A suspect accused of a major crime would normally be placed in the cells.

  “I shall let the Inextinguishables know that you have arrived. The date of your hearing can then be set.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Sinthoras firmly. “I must get back to my army. There’s a war on. This whole procedure is a sheer waste of precious time. You saw how the troops revere me.” He felt it right to stress his status and his military importance to Verànor. His rank had been the second highest in the land and he wanted it back. Polòtain is going to wish he had never started this!

  Verànor nodded. “I’ll tell them. You should use a mask, too. Otherwise you’ll be taking the sickness back to Tark Draan and infecting our troops.” He turned his night-mare and headed for the Tower.

  A good idea. Sinthoras entered his house, accompanied by the guards.

  He was surprised to see the door opened by his slave Wirian and not by his steward Umaïnor. Wirian bowed in greeting, keeping her face veiled because she was not particularly pretty. Compared with Raleeha, most human females were disappointing.

  “Master! It is so good you have come back!” she exclaimed, heartily relieved. He assumed she had not meant the comment maliciously. Her slim-fitting gray dress outlined her slim barbarian figure. She had obviously lost weight.

  “Where is Umaïnor?”

  “He is dead, sire. This terrible sickness killed him.” She broke down in tears as Sinthoras dismounted. Together they walked in; the älfar guarding him kept three paces behind.

  Sinthoras heard nothing at all. There was no chatter, no clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen, in fact no signs of anyone else in the vicinity. “Where is everybody?”

  “The household . . . Umaïnor died first. We found him in the hallway, his body burst open and his guts exploded. It was like he had been hollowed out.” Wirian shuddered. “It took me a long time to clean everything up, I can tell you.”

  He shouted at her: “Where are the slaves?”

  “Master, it’s not my fault!” she whimpered. “Don’t be angry with me! I’m the last person you should be angry with. I stayed here and have always been loyal, but the others all ran away. They went one night. They slipped out of Dsôn and went to join the Army of the Ownerless.”

  What powers are conspiring against me? “And what in the name of all infamy is the Army of the Ownerless?” he barked, marching off to his private quarters. “Bring an herbal infusion and come to my rooms at once. I need to know everything that has been happening.” He dismissed her and went to the relaxation room, slamming the tall double doors behind him. Has absolutely everyone gone crazy?

  Sinthoras threw himself down on the upholstered couch and looked out of the long windows: the gray grass lawn and dark red and black foliage was subdued and beautiful. But what caught his eye were the weeds disfiguring the white bone-gravel paths. Nobody had been tending the garden.

  Slaves running off! In the old Dsôn that would have been unthinkable!

  The dark blue of the room calmed him and he gazed on the unframed works gracing the walls. His own. When did I last stand at my easel? Perhaps it might ease my troubled soul.

  He became aware how much he had missed painting. His style was not the same as Carmondai’s; Sinthoras preferred to give his hand free range over the canvas with his mind selecting colors at random; his work was always powerful.

  His thoughts were circling around the imminent hearing when Wirian returned with a tray; she poured out some of the drink for him and knelt down on the floor. “You asked about the Army of the Ownerless?”

  “Yes.” Sinthoras gave an almost imperceptible smile. “And don’t be afraid. You won’t be punished.”

  The slave was relieved to hear it. “After the steward died, no one knew what would happen. I wanted to ask your relatives to appoint someone, but the others were against that. They said they would leave Dsôn. They said it was going to be easy because of the sickness. They wanted to join the Army of the Ownerless. They locked me in the cellar. By time I had managed to get free they had gone.”

  “The Army?” he urged, taking the cup.

  “Yes, yes, of course, the Army! It’s made up of escaped slaves and a handful of soldiers from the vassal nations. They have a camp near—”

  “A camp? We’re letting a bunch of runaways set up camp in Dsôn Faïmon?” Sinthoras stared at Wirian in astonishment, trying to read her veiled features. “How can that be? A single one of our rawest recruits would suffice to deal with a hundred barbarians!”

  Wirian was equally surprised at his reaction, but remained silent.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “You . . . haven’t heard? The dorón ashont have thrown up a barricade at one of the island fortresses and are holding it against all älfar attempts to oust them.” Wirian fussed with positioning the teapot correctly over the heated coals in the metal container. “Some of the dorón ashont have got to the sections around Wèlèron, Avaris and Ocizûr, inciting the slaves to rebel. Many of your people have been killed, master. Whole settlements have been razed to the ground and the Towers that Walk have led this Army of the Ownerless into countless battles. They seem to be invincible.”

  “How . . . ?” Sinthoras did not know what to say. “This cannot be true,” he said. “I’ve been riding through Tark Draan conquering one kingdom after another and back home neither Constellations nor Comets can deal with a few scum insurgents?” The dorón ashont are cunning. First they weaken us, then they set the barbarians and vassal nations against us. He placed a hand to his brow. “By Samusin! I’ve arrived just in time! Before I go back to our troops I must save Dsôn Faïmon. Tomorrow, straight after the hearing.”

  Sinthoras noticed that Wirian was trembling with fear.

  “Go and make me something to eat,” he said, more kindly. “Then go over to Timanris—”

  “Master . . . I-I . . .” Shaking violently, she stammered, “I can’t do that. For the same reason that I could not consult her about a new steward.”

  He felt sick and there was an ice-cold knot in his stomach. “What’s happened to her?” he whispered. “The plague? In the name of infamy, if s
he—”

  “No, master, it is not the sickness.”

  Sinthoras felt his heart might burst. “Tell me! Out with it, you wretched thing! What’s happened to Timanris?”

  “She will have nothing to do with you. She has renounced you, master.” Wirian bowed her head humbly. “Please do not punish me!”

  Sinthoras was transfixed as if struck by a bolt of lightning. He was numb. He had no heartbeat. He was as if dead. He had even ceased to breathe. He forced himself to inhale. “What?” he whispered incredulously, although his instincts told him to bellow.

  “She has publicly renounced you and has severed all connection,” Wirian expanded, head down. “She had it proclaimed in the market square. The reason given was your involvement in the death of her previous partner, Robonor.”

  Sinthoras heard the words, but could not take them in. The room started to turn, the pictures on the walls merging into one long smear.

  This is the cruelest trick Polòtain could have played. He has deprived me of what is dearest to me. I . . . He was unable to think, so badly affected was he by the news. Timanris! She must say it herself to my face! I can’t simply . . .

  “NO!” He leaped to his feet, hurling his cup aside, and ran from the room; the guards followed hard on his heels as he headed out through the empty alleyways and streets of the capital city.

  Sinthoras was so distraught that it did not occur to him to place a handkerchief over his mouth and nose for protection.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southwest of the Gray Mountains, the area formerly known as the Golden Plain,

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

  winter.

  Caphalor appeared, fully armored, in front of a house that had been newly constructed inside the crater they had discovered by the Golden Plain. He surveyed the progress with satisfaction.

  The fortifications were taking shape and would soon reach a stage capable of holding off an enemy onslaught. Buildings had been swiftly erected to house those älfar troops still in the town. They, like him, refused to accept any accommodation the barbarians (let alone elves) had used. These quarters would serve for the snow-rich winter months.

  The huge crater held a strange fascination for him.

  Behind him, the new nostàroi left the new accommodation and joined him. “It’s all looking good,” said Imàndaris. “We hadn’t seen all the details in the dark.”

  “The barracks won’t be in use for very long,” he replied. “But the craftspeople will be delighted to hear their work praised by their nostàroi.” Caphalor let his gaze wander over the labors of stonemasons and carpenters, busy trying to make the älfar warriors feel at home in Tark Draan.

  On top of the pleasant change their efforts had brought about, there was also the comforting atmosphere exuded by the location itself. The crater’s aura recalled the mood in Dsôn Faïmon.

  But the atmosphere here is more intense, more authentic somehow. He squatted down and dug his fingers into the soft earth. It’s as if the place were glad to welcome us here; there’s a special energy.

  “I can feel it, too,” said Imàndaris from behind him, her tone formal, almost ceremonial. “This is indeed an extraordinary spot and it deserves to be blessed with a city that will outshine Dsôn.”

  Caphalor smiled to himself and stood back up, pressing the crumbs of soil between his fingers as if to preserve the essence. “It’s unlikely the Inextinguishables will commission anything like that.”

  He watched her closely. The early morning light illuminated her features and darkened her eyes. Caphalor’s interest in her was growing. As the daughter of a renowned artist, her career path had been quite different; she had moved in the realm of art, but had walked a path of death. She was extremely unusual.

  The episode with Morana was still in his mind. Caphalor had been strongly attracted to her from their first meeting, but when she was so outspoken that evening at dinner, the scales had fallen from his eyes: Morana had understood him and his emotions so much better than he had done himself.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Imàndaris looked at him quizzically. “What is worrying you?”

  “Nothing.” He answered lamely. “Nothing to do with the crater or the project.”

  She gave a kindly smile. “Then it must be me! That’s why you’re staring.”

  Caphalor decided to seize the moment. “Well, now that you mention it: I was wondering why the daughter of an artist would choose to take up the sword rather than a sculptor’s chisel or a painter’s brush. You are sure to carry your mother’s talent within you.”

  “Who knows? I prefer handling weapons. That’s all.” Imàndaris looked up at the crater’s edge, where a unit of cavalry were heading out on their rounds. “They’re going to hunt down elves, I see?”

  “Yes. I have sent them to search for elves and do their arms practice at the same time. If Tion and Samusin are favorable, the soldiers will get to try out their new lance skills.” His laughter was dark. He went on: “We were lucky at Sonnenhag because the óarcos weren’t expecting us, otherwise Carmondai would hardly have carried off the victory against Toboribar, but what he managed to teach the troops in that short time is amazing.” Caphalor walked on, accompanied by the nostàroi. “And how is it that the Inextinguishables came to select you for this high office? Please don’t think me rude; I have never been one for politics and I don’t know who is advising the rulers now. You may have many sponsors. But I had never heard your name until very recently.”

  “You were well known for not being interested,” she said. “You had your estates, your family and you preferred life as an . . . outsider. You went into battle when you were needed, but then you went back to your farming.” Her tone remained amicable. “You and I were never on the same campaigns, Caphalor. That will be why you had never heard my name.”

  “You must have been good.” He pointed to the silver nostàroi emblem on her black mantle. “Or you would not have been awarded that badge.”

  “My mother never understood me. Sometimes she said she doubted I was really her daughter. She did not disown me, but she never invited me to come home. I’m her guilty secret. Her other children turned out better, to her way of thinking.” She looked around. “Where are we heading?”

  He pointed to the center of the crater. “Over there. The elves attempted to have the hole filled in, but they could not finish it. I want to take a closer look. That hill would be a good place for the governor’s palace. Excellent vantage point.”

  Imàndaris nodded. “We ought to get the slaves straightening up the edges. That gentle curve wastes space. We’ll need more room.”

  “More? There’s plenty of space for thousands here. What numbers are you thinking of?” Caphalor grinned. “Dsôn’s citizens won’t want to emigrate.”

  “That’s true. But . . . I don’t know. What we create here today we don’t have to worry about tomorrow.” She tossed back her reddish blond hair. “Will you join me at dinner? I’d like to discuss our plans for the other elf regions. Our scouts are back from Gwandalur and they’ve got news about the dragon. It could prove more dangerous than we’d thought.”

  “Oh?” He was pleased that Imàndaris was interested in his opinion, although he was well aware that her goals were different from his own: consulting him would help her strengthen her reputation with the troops. He was still a popular commander and if she were on good terms with him the soldiers would accept her. A clever move.

  “You can answer later.” She indicated the massive heap of earth and strode off. “Let’s have a good look at this first.”

  They arrived at the foot of the hill. Composed of loose sand it now had a light frosting of snow, making it look like icy chalk.

  Caphalor cautiously scaled the slippery slope. Grains of sand and crystals of snow crunched under the thick soles of his winter boots. He trod heavily, testing the composition of the ground. “I’ve always wondered why they started building this mountain in the
center of the crater,” he called to Imàndaris. “It would have been easier to tip all this sand down the edge rather than build up in the middle.”

  “That’s true. Almost any other method would have been simpler.” She bent down to pick something up. “Is this glass, do you think? Have they been trying to melt the sand down?”

  Am I imagining it? Caphalor felt the atmosphere changing. The energy he had noticed before was ebbing away as he climbed. He turned to the nostàroi. “Do you feel it?”

  “It’s fading,” she said, bewildered. “Can it be to do with this sand?”

  The sand is blocking Inàste’s aura! Caphalor suddenly understood why the hill had been constructed in the middle of the crater. He stabbed his heel into the frozen layer of sand.

  Imàndaris, eight or nine paces behind him, started clearing snow and sand away with her boot. She had gotten the same idea. “What’s this?” She crouched down.

  Caphalor hurried over to her, sliding on the white surface. He saw something black where she had exposed the ground. It’s stone! Just as I thought.

  Brushing the pale sand to one side, Imàndaris was surprised to find a rock underneath. “What have the elves done here?” All at once her puzzled frown gave way to a dazzling smile. “Can it be . . . the fossilized tear of Inàste?” She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh, Inàste! How wonderful if we have truly found a holy relic!”

  “We should get the whole stone uncovered.” Caphalor kept his excitement under control, but inside he was as joyful as his companion. How inspiring for our people if we have found some genuine portent from our creating spirit—something that can grace us with its powerful aura.

  Imàndaris laid a hand on the precious stone. “Oh, in the name of all infamy!” she murmured, her eyes tight shut. “Come here, Caphalor! Place your hand here! It is—”

  He knelt at her side. As he touched the black stone his fingertips tingled. The aura, the energy that filled the entire crater, was streaming into his body, permeating every fiber of his being and filling him with incredible warmth.