Devastating Hate (16 page)

First thing in the morning a servant came in to wake them both and ask them to meet with Timansor.

That does not sound good.

They came down to find Timansor furiously angry—black lines crisscrossing his face in a series of scars. He was wearing a wide white mantle with black embroidery over his night attire. He had clearly not lost not a splinter of unendingness in summoning them. “How dare you abuse our trust in this way?” he snarled at Sinthoras.

“Father, he wanted to see me—” Timanris began. But her father silenced her with a look.

“There was only one reason for his coming to Dsôn,” he bellowed, pointing at Sinthoras. “To get his revenge for the humiliation that Polòtain has subjected him to. He needed somewhere safe to stay where he would not be betrayed, so he came crawling to you! He killed Itáni! Beat her to death as if she were scum. Then he went to Polòtain's house and scrawled a warning on the gate so everyone would know what to expect if they speak up against him!”

“But, Father, he was with me all night,” Timanris said indignantly. “What makes you think it was him?”

Sinthoras closed his eyes for the space of two heartbeats and upbraided himself for his hot temper.
I should have left it at just destroying the statue.

Timansor glared at Sinthoras. “Because she was killed with a club whose description matches one that I had in my collection.”

“There are plenty of other clubs that look just the same, surely,” Timanris tried again to placate her father.

“
ONE I HAD
, do you hear?” he thundered at his daughter. She jumped back in shock. “When I heard about the deed I checked my weapons collection. That one is missing. Somebody took it and went out hunting. And don't tell me it was one of the slaves! Don't you dare lie to your own father just because your heart tells you to.”

I can't watch her suffer like this.
Sinthoras opened his mouth to reply.

“No, Father, I took it,” said Timanris, visibly shaking. “It needed cleaning. Some of the iron had gone rusty so I took it a smith in Ocizûr. He's supposed to be very good.”

Timansor stared at his daughter, taken aback. “You?”

“It was meant to be a surprise, Father.” Timanris cast her eyes down. “It won't be one now, but I can't listen to you accuse the älf I love of this.”

Sinthoras covered his own astonishment with a smile. “So I'm not the murder suspect anymore, I gather?”

It was obvious that Timansor was working hard to take this all in. He did not want to say his daughter was lying, but he certainly could not believe her. “Send a slave to collect it before this smith manages to mislay it,” he said quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. Without looking at either of them he left the room.

The door had hardly closed behind her father when Timanris whirled around to face Sinthoras. “You made me lie!” she whispered. “And you lied to me! You were never in the kitchen like you said. What my father says is true!”

“I . . .” Sinthoras did not know what to say. He felt bad for deceiving Timanris while she had defended him so courageously.

“I knew we didn't have any more honey gingernuts. We ran out yesterday,” she said frostily. “If you're going to be dishonest, then at least check your facts so your lies sound credible.” She flashed her eyes. “Not another word! Get on your night-mare and get out of Dsôn! It's best if we don't see each other for a time.” Timanris walked past him and shook off his hand when he tried to catch her arm. “No, Sinthoras. Go off and do your heroic deeds in Tark Draan. You haven't managed any here.” She left the room, closing the door quietly to show her deep disappointment.

I did the right thing
, Sinthoras thought defiantly.
It may not have been a heroic deed, but it was essential to stop the slander.

As she had advised him, he prepared for his departure and left the premises as soon as he could. He did not travel with Caphalor's messenger. He did not want company.

He rode through Dsôn at a comfortable speed and could not resist crossing the marketplace.

The scattered debris of the statue was being collected up by a group of slaves.

What are they doing?
Curiosity made him ride over, his face hidden in a scarf, to speak to them. “Oh, I see. The Polòtain family has some sad work to do. What's to happen to the damaged hero?”

“The statue's to stay where it is,” said one of the slaves, without looking at him directly. “We have been told to put all the broken pieces up on the plinth and to leave them there.”

“Why?”

“Our master said there would not be any clearer accusation of the nostàroi. It says a statue can be destroyed, but the truth cannot.”

I should have killed the old man yesterday!
Sinthoras urged the night-mare to a wild gallop and they swept through the city.
He is too wily a customer to be allowed to stay alive.
He wanted to deal with Polòtain once and for all.

But there was an army waiting for him and they had to get the invasion underway before winter. Without the nostàroi, their own troops and the allies might not even march.

But that doesn't mean Polòtain is safe from me. My arm is long enough to reach Dsôn from the Gray Mountains.
Sinthoras was thinking of his personal guards—particularly of Morana, a tried and tested fighter.
I will send her and have the troublemaker killed.

He was convinced the young älf would not refuse to carry out his commission.
The favor of a nostàroi is worth a great deal—she will know that. Everything she could wish for if she kills the old man for me!

Sinthoras bought two dozen bottles of good wine from a merchant in town and then headed southeast, to get to the Gray Mountains as quickly as possible.

He left the city as he had entered it—incognito. Riding swift as an arrow through the älfar realm, he reached the same defense outpost he had passed on his previous ride.

The watch on the island fortress were delighted with his gift and promised anew they would keep his secret.

Sinthoras exchanged mounts, taking the benàmoi's fresh night-mare; he was about to cross over to Ishím Voróo when the commander stopped him: “Before you go to the Gray Mountains, can you tell us about these new stories, Nostàroi? They say the dorón ashont have emerged again in the northwest?”

“The dorón ashont?” Sinthoras could tell the question was serious, but he had only heard tell of these creatures in the old legends. They had
been defeated for all time, as far as he knew—eradicated. There was only one explanation:
Polòtain's associates must be spreading rumors to make the public frightened! Is this part of his plan to get the älfar to mistrust me? Is there nothing he would not stoop to? I must send Morana off to Dsôn to finish him off. Or Arviû could do it, perhaps?

“No, this is the first I've heard,” he answered. “The dorón ashont are just legend. Forget it! Go back to your men—enjoy the wine, all of you; you have earned it with your loyalty.”

Sinthoras galloped over the bridge.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the south east of the Gray Mountains, the Golden Plain,

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

late summer.

Morana placed one page after another down in front of Caphalor. She was showing him the sketches and descriptions of the crater she had discovered. She was so excited; he could hardly read quick enough. “I'm sorry my drawings aren't very good, but I swear by all that's infamous that this location is even more splendid and impressive in reality, Nostàroi.”

He took in the content of the pages, focusing on every detail.

They had been conferring in his tent for half a moment of unendingness. He had listened carefully to her report, only interrupting to ask the occasional question.

Morana had not been surprised to see the älfar army marching out into Tark Draan—it was high time they began their campaign, but she did wonder why Sinthoras had not been taking part in the briefing sessions. He had not been at the meeting where the commanders were given their orders and he was not here now. She had been told he had some unspecified malady.
What on earth can it be?

Caphalor laid the last drawing to one side. “You have found one of the places where the Creator Spirit's tears fell,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “This is a sign, Morana! A sign that our victory over
the elves is nigh! The goddess placed her mark in the earth and the elves have been powerless against her might: they have not been able to fill the crater or reduce the aura. The tear has suffused the ground with Inàste's divinity!” He leaped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I can't thank you enough for your courage in daring to explore the place! I knew you were the right choice. That
you
were the one!”

Morana recognized the desire in his eyes. The älf was apparently more than interested in her. In her: a simple warrior, not even from a noble family!
I wasn't mistaken; he liked me from the very start!
She was surprised to find this made her feel nervous. “Nostàroi, I thank you for your praise, but I was only following orders. Any one of your scouts could have completed the task—”

“But it was
you
I sent, because you had caught my eye,” he interrupted her. “You among all the others.” He realized she might be misinterpreting his words. He released his hold and stepped back. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she said with a smile.
Is it him making my heart beat so fast?
Her uncertainty remained. She knew what had happened to his life-partner and that he must have loved her dearly. They had been together longer than any other älfar couple she knew of.
Perhaps his emotions are still confused?
But she couldn't deny the warm wave of pleasure she felt when she looked at him.
Don't get your hopes up. He probably sees Enoïla when he looks at you. He wants a substitute for her, not a new partner.
This meeting was about the Tark Draan campaign and the elves and nothing else. That was why they were both wearing armor rather than sumptuous robes, as if for some social or intimate event.

“Good.” He looked more at ease now as he pushed back his long black hair. “Tomorrow I'll give the army the order to march on the elf realm and advance to the crater. We'll raze every single settlement we pass to the ground.”

“And when we get to the crater?”

“We offer the elves a target. They will try to drive us out and stop us establishing ourselves there.” Caphalor moved the sketches to one side and brought the plan of Tark Draan to the fore. Half of the territory had been carefully mapped out, but there were large blank areas on the other half. The scouts who were covering that area were still on reconnaissance.
“We shall force them to send their army against us. We will choose the battlefield location—one that gives us all the advantages.”

Morana perused the figures he had written down.

The list with the heading Marching Orders mentioned around 100,000 barbarians from various tribes, 20,000 Kraggash óarcos, 40,000 óarcos, 4,000 gnomes, 5,000 ogres, 7,000 half-trolls, and 70,000 miscellaneous creatures. Finally, there were 30,000 älfar warriors.

Then the figures had been amended: the army had lost a tenth of its fighting force. Members of their own race had not been affected: the älfar had ensured that it was the other creatures in the army that saw the brunt of the action at the Stone Gateway, thus protecting their own. The barbarians had not suffered too greatly, either, because they had had the óarcos in front of them. The other creatures had heavier losses, but none so bad as to be alarming.

“That's a lot of soldiers,” commented Morana.

“It looks that way at first view. I had to split them into smaller units so that we could make quicker progress. 10,000 of our own warriors will be leading these units and keeping them in check where necessary.”

Morana leaned forward, took a measuring rule and indicated a point to the north of the crater. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like we've got 20,000 älfar warriors to attack the Golden Plain?”

“Half of them are archers with a range of a thousand paces, more with a following wind,” he added, going on to ask her eagerly: “What would you suggest?”

She circled a small area with the end of the ruler. “There's a small valley here. It looks as if it could be defended against an advancing army without incurring great losses, but with a little preparation . . .” She sensed that Caphalor was staring at her in surprise.
Was I too bold?

“It sounds as if you know about strategy?”

“I . . . I like to play Tharc with my brothers. It trains my mind.” Morana put the wooden rule back down on the table. “Forgive me. I went too far.”

He smiled kindly. “No, you didn't! I am glad that you are using your brain. I know the game, but I must admit I was never very good at it.” Caphalor placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are just what I need.” He
left his hand there. “The valley. Good. Explain. Tell me how you would handle it.”

“It depends on where the elves gather. We have to pretend we really want them—” She stopped. “Have you not got any trained strategists for this?”

He nodded.

All right. If that's the way of it.
Morana drew a deep breath and explained her plan. When she had finished she looked up at Caphalor.

“I am impressed. You have obviously got the territory clearly in mind. You must know it as well as the elves do.”

“Better, I think,” she said, smiling with relief and satisfaction.

“I have taken on board what you have told me and I'll discuss it all with the strategic advisers the Inextinguishables have placed at my disposal. I mean at our disposal: Sinthoras and myself.” He bent and kissed her on the forehead. “For now, you have my thanks. You will receive further rewards later.”