Devastating Hate (29 page)

The cut went deep, slicing through arteries and severing the larynx.

“Do you see what I mean, barbarian?” asked the elf with a malicious glare as he stepped nimbly aside to avoid the jet of blood. “If you had known my true nature it would not have been so easy to kill you. Or to take over your town. The name of your death is Carmondai.”

Doghosh felt the burning slash and the air on his opened flesh.
He has . . .
His legs gave way beneath him and he fell onto his knees, blacking out as he tipped sideways to the floor.

Carmondai was sitting on the second wall, his face turned to the town, his feet dangling over the edge. He had a goblet next to him and a bottle of fruit wine that Caphalor had included in his luggage for special occasions.

Taking Sonnenhag was just such an occasion.

My head is still spinning from the triumph.
He had spread out his drawings and weighted them down with fragments of masonry to stop them blowing away.

Since dispatching Doghosh, he had done nothing but let his fingers fly over the paper, charcoal in hand. He was aching to put all his impressions from the battle, the victory and deaths he had witnessed down on parchment. He had taken off most of his armor because it got in the way when he was drawing. He would bathe and change his clothes later.

Below, in the open space between the innermost town wall and the defense mound, the captured residents—men, women and children—had
been herded together. Caphalor was off somewhere in Sonnenhag with the guards, inspecting the houses.

From time to time Carmondai heard a shout from the huddled captives demanding to know what was to happen to them. He did not respond.

He had soon filled the next sheet of paper and it joined the others beside him.

He gave a satisfied smile and sipped his wine, then leaned back and studied the stars. They were the same ones seen back in Dsôn Faïmon, of course.
What a good decision, to come along with the troops.

His right hand was starting to ache and his left shoulder was tense and uncomfortable from overuse in battle. The elf lances were nicely balanced, but heavy because they were reinforced. The impact of crashing into an armored orc took its toll on one's joints and he could still feel the jolts he'd taken on his shield in his forearm. Carmondai smiled.
And it was such fun!

Caphalor appeared on the walkway having apparently completed his inspection of the town. He cast an eye over the pages strewn around. “Drawings and poems in excess. I take it the day provided inspiration?”

“It did.” Carmondai collected the sheets of paper to make room for the nostàroi to sit. “And you? What decision have you come to?” He gestured at the captives with the end of his pen.

“Sonnenhag will provide building materials: it will be our quarry. The stone blocks are more or less regular, so we won't have much work to do. Some of the barbarians can transport the stone to the crater on the Golden Plain. And we can use the beams from the houses as fuel: nicely seasoned firewood.” Caphalor sat down at his side. “Those with the best
physique we can send to Durùston in the Gray Mountains. He'll get the best out of them.”

Carmondai knew he meant exactly that. “Yes, and he was telling me that back home the people will give anything for souvenir jewelry made from the bones of barbarians. He can scarcely keep up with demand.” He swung his feet to and fro. “Do we keep the citadel in the center of town just as it is?”

“Yes. It will be an excellent base for us. We can keep the surrounding territory under control from there.” The black-haired älf looked at the goblet and the wine. “May I?”

“Help yourself. It's yours, anyway.”

Caphalor drank, surveying the town in the evening darkness. With the inhabitants gone, there were no lights in the homes. From a distance, you would not be able to see the town at all.

Carmondai was more impressed by this city than by most barbarian settlements they had seen along the way. Humans did not set store by aesthetics: they just seemed to care about having a roof, some walls, windows and a door. They paid no attention to delicacy and sophistication in their buildings; any filigree work or playful additions they did use tended to look effeminate or fussy. True, the royal cities were more impressive and had columns and domed roofs and so on, but no älf was going to think much of the carvings on the balconies here in Sonnenhag. They were skillfully executed, but childish.

“You have trained the troops excellently.” Caphalor said. “Without your help we would never have beaten the óarcos.”

“They are good soldiers and took to the new fighting style right away. And, of course, we practiced every single splinter of unendingness.”

“Of course. But we did need someone who knew the forgotten military techniques. Our people have not been using these strategies for a very long time.” Caphalor was still addressing him, but he looked dead ahead. “The Inextinguishables have no idea of the caliber of soldier they lost in you.”

“I'm not a soldier anymore.” Carmondai did not want to return to his previous existence.
Those feelings and those thoughts have no place
inside my head!
“My life is my art now. What I've done here is an exception for the sake of our nation.” He gave a little sigh.
But I did enjoy it.

Caphalor stayed silent for a while. “Will you be Sinthoras this evening for the troops? They will be expecting to see the two nostàroi to appear together.”

Carmondai glanced at him. “How long do you intend to keep this charade up? How long before the pretense is exposed?”

“We keep it up until Sinthoras gets back. There's no other choice. The troops need him and they need to see him. They worship him now after the battle of the Golden Plain.” He gave a bitter laugh. “If they only knew they were risking their lives for an älf who's back home romping in the bed—”

“That's not what I'm doing,” came a voice from the other side of the walkway.

Carmondai swiveled around and saw their missing nostàroi.
How did he manage that?

Sinthoras was wearing the black armor of the älfar with a cloak slung over it; shadows played around him. He was thinner than usual. “I have come back,” he said quietly. “My apologies for taking so long, but there were things happening in Dsôn . . . I have enemies there, determined to bring me down, and they want
you
to fall with me, Caphalor. I had to act.”

He's not looking well.
“You two will have matters to discuss that don't belong in my writing, I imagine.” Carmondai stood up to leave.

“Stay. We have no secrets from you.” Caphalor held him gently by the shoulder. “It may well be that we have enemies, Sinthoras, but your soldiers need you. They love their dazzling nostàroi, his rousing speeches of glorious victory and the confidence he instills in them on the eve of battle.” He turned to Carmondai who was feeling awkward. “Oh yes! The Sinthoras who inspires them in battle—here he is, sitting next to me!” Caphalor joked, then grew serious once more. “Without Carmondai the pretense would have failed. And without that pretense we would never have conquered the Golden Plain.”

“I heard that I had been quite a presence. I seem to have been just about everywhere while I was back in Dsôn.” Sinthoras's response was cutting. “Someone took my place.”

“That's the last thing I wanted—” Carmondai began. He was aware that the blond älf was jealous of his success. A deadly rivalry had sprung up out of nowhere.

“You have no right to feel affronted, Sinthoras,” Caphalor's interruption was a cool rebuke. “He was acting under my orders. He did extremely well. But now you can prove that you are big enough to get over the setback.” He stood up. “You have been away too long and you are in debt to us, friend. We took care of your reputation while you were away having a fine time in Dsôn.”

Carmondai could not help noticing the reproachful tone, but there was another layer of meaning he could not quite identify.
It's as if some ancient antipathy had surfaced.
He stayed quiet. Whatever he said would be wrong.

“Can one of you tell me why we killed thousands of óarcos?” Sinthoras wanted to know. “Even if we can't stand them, aren't they supposed to be our allies? Not that I feel sorry for them, but we need them. Especially the Kraggash.” He was obviously trying to distract them from his absence.

Caphalor drained his cup, unperturbed. “Toboribar's group took off on their own initiative. They thought we were taking too long and they wanted to get in quick and grab their share. This was unacceptable. Anyway, because of our false armor, any surviving óarcos will swear blind it was elves that slaughtered Toboribar's troops. That exonerates us and should make Toboribar more compliant in the future. This incident will have shown him that it's not worth going it alone.”

“I understand. A good move.” Sinthoras was having difficulty admitting this. “Where is the demon?”

Carmondai had been asking himself the same question.
Our most important ally in the Tark Draan campaign is off in a sulk somewhere.

“Carmondai is my witness to that: he turned up demanding to speak to you. Said you were in his debt. He said he would take his ever-so-grand powers away and that he would not come back unless you begged him to. And then he had the gall to threaten me.” He exhaled sharply. “I thought you would have seen him at the Stone Gateway on your way back.”

“We didn't.” Sinthoras looked worried. “He can't have disappeared?”

Carmondai could not help staring at the blond nostàroi.
First he goes home and has a good time in Dsôn and when he eventually comes back he does not even bring the demon with him.
It was getting too difficult to praise him in the epic.
Here I am doing his work for him and I'll get nothing for it! Well, hardly anything.

“We don't need him and his undead dwarves,” said Caphalor, placing his empty cup on the remnants of the battlement. “I suggest you go and collect your applause and enjoy your moment of glory.”

“I'm back now,” was the cold reply. “No one has to wear my armor for me any longer. It is too big for anyone else, anyway.”

You conceited . . .
Now Carmondai felt his honor had been sullied with this offensive remark. He leaped to his feet and confronted Sinthoras, the aches and pains forgotten. “Let me tell you this: you would completely disappear inside my armor! I never
want
to wear yours again, even if all the stars were about to fall on my head and it was the last thing left to shelter beneath!” He stomped off.

I should never have gone back to warfare. I'm an artist. My weapons are pen and words. And that's the way it's going to stay from now until endingness.

But a certain feeling told him this might not be the case.

Carmondai hated the idea.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), many miles south of the Gray Mountains

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

early winter.

Famenia shivered, threw a log onto the dying fire and pulled her mantle tighter. Her bed that night would consist of a deep layer of moss and foliage with a horse blanket on top.
That's about as comfortable as it gets if you sleep in the open.

To make matters worse, she kept thinking about the stories Törden used to tell: tales of monsters who clambered out of their dens at full moon, ugly maws and long teeth ready to attack and eat humans. They
were invisible until they fell on their victims, but you could always hear them howling like a pack of wolves.

That's quite enough of that! There's nothing like that here or anywhere else!
Exhausted, Famenia laid her head down on the blanket and thanked the gods for their support so far.

Grok-Tmai the Worrier was the next person she had to visit. She was a little apprehensive.
The Worrier.

The moon shone silver bright, throwing strong shadows of thinning foliage onto the ground. There was a smell of cool, earthy damp and the crispness of the coming winter.

She grew melancholy thinking of her home. She remembered her friends: the evenings spent together baking, the laughter and happiness.

Famenia gently touched the amulet. She was not sure what she was: no longer a famula, but surely not yet a maga. She no longer had a mentor to advise her, but she bore more responsibility than most would be able to cope with.

On her journey she had gotten to the point of giving up several times. She wanted to crawl away and hide under a fallen tree trunk until everything was over.

A breeze blew through the grove, lifting dead leaves and making them rustle. The branches swayed and creaked as they rubbed against each other. The flames of her campfire juddered and danced to the wind's melody.

Famenia found herself shivering again, and this time it wasn't the cold, but fear. At first the forest had looked a good choice for shelter: the occasional carved rune indicated that the place had been dedicated to Elria, and the places where gods resided were apparently protected.

But she could not get to sleep.

Sometimes the moon was too bright, sometimes it was the noises of the night that disturbed her: the sounds of animals calling, the memories of Törden's ghost stories, the shadows . . . She was used to sleeping in a bed with a warm coverlet to snuggle up under.

I'll have to face up to it: my carefree existence is over.
Famenia shut her eyes and tried to drive away the worrying thoughts. But hardly had her lids closed than she was tortured with the image of Ortina dying, the
sight of Simin with an arrow through his throat and the metallic smell of blood . . .