Devastating Hate (36 page)

“Why were you trying to kill me?”

“Thought you were a dwarf.”

“Look how tall I am!” Simin kicked him in the belly. It did not have much effect because of the armor, but the blow was intended to give the message that he was willing to inflict more damage. “I want the truth!”

“I will whisper it in your ear!” The orc tried to get around the sword and attack the magus.

Alarmed by the sudden movement, Simin stuck the blade deep into the creature's throat and let go of the sword. The orc fell and foolishly pulled the sword out of the wound, causing a sudden hemorrhage; he ended his life in a pool of his own blood.

The magus strode over the cadaver and crept forward.
Perhaps he was guarding something?

He soon found himself in a small cave where the dwarves had transformed stalagmites into cleverly carved columns. Lighting was provided, as in the rest of the tunnels, by luminous moss.

In the center was a naked orc. Chains leading from four of the pillars were attached to a ring around his neck; he crouched on the floor, head on chest, his body covered in cuts and dried blood.

That is . . . quite revolting!
A large clump of flesh had been cut out of the orc's right shoulder and the wound had not been dressed or covered. Thick crusts of scab had gone putrid.
What had he done to deserve that punishment, I wonder? And why is he alone?

Punishment had to be
seen
in order to be an effective deterrent, but there was no one else in the room and it was quite far from anywhere else. Perhaps this one had led some kind of rebellion. He might have been tortured and was perhaps awaiting execution.

I don't have to put myself in their place.
He was about to withdraw when he saw a long dagger sticking out of the creature's side.
By Elria! How is he not dead?

The orc took a shuddering breath, raised its head and looked directly at him. A long wound that ran under his chin from one ear to the other was clearly visible. The monster snorted aggressively, displaying long teeth as powerful as the fangs of a wolf.

It should surely be long dead!
Then the appalling truth struck.
Is this one of the dead come back to life?
Cautiously he approached the captive.
Perhaps the demon is close at hand?
He looked around again.

The beast stood up and the chains clattered. A roar came from its muzzle, accompanied by the smell of drains.

“Are you an Undead?” Simin asked, stopping just out of the range of the filthy claws. Then he moved swiftly, pulling the dagger out of the creature's side and plunging the blade into its heart.

At least that was what he tried to do. He had little experience in combat and had made the mistake of inserting the knife at the wrong angle, so that it did not slip between the ribs as he had hoped.

The orc roared and aimed a blow at him.

Simin managed to avoid the long talons, but tripped on the rough ground. Before he could help himself, he fell and was grabbed by the orc's right forearm and dragged into range of the horrific fangs.

I am an idiot!
Simin wanted to preserve his store of the magic energy so he drew the dagger out again and rammed it into his enemy's throat from below.

The orc did not seem impressed. He continued in his efforts to get at the magus's face, ready to strip it of flesh.

I'll have to use magic . . .
Simin could see the dagger point sticking up through the monster's lower jaw and piercing the tongue. He conjured up a dazzling ball of light, blinding the beast for several heartbeats; then, using the confusion that resulted, he thrust both feet against the orc and pushed with all his might, ignoring the pain in his belly to pull himself free.

Simin landed in a pile of shit, and slid away from the monster, who flailed wildly at the end of his chains, making the stalagmite pillars shake.

“Ye gods!” Simin watched the orc roar and thrash about in spite of the new injuries.
Thank you, Sitalia!

he heard a persuasive, whispering voice inside his own head.

“What?” he looked right and left. “Who . . . ?”

“The demon!” Simin exclaimed.

The voice whispered.

Simin tilted his head back and saw a cloud of fog floating just under the cave roof.

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,

4371
^st
/4372
^nd
divisions of unendingness (5199
^th
/ 5200
^th
solar cycles),

winter.

Sinthoras ran across the white bone gravel of the main thoroughfares, his breath coming unevenly. He knew full well his guards were finding it difficult to keep up, but the urgency that drove him to find Timanris would not let him slow down.

Polòtain can take everything else, but he mustn't take her away from me. Not her!
He felt an icy rage that spurred him on to revenge and bloodlust. He wished he could confront Polòtain, who had caused him all this upheaval and distress, so that he could repay it all in kind.
I would murder him and be glad to answer for it in a court of law. That way I'll be condemned for an offense I'd actually committed.

No one had ever been as important to him as Timanris; she fascinated and encouraged and, in so many ways, completed him. He wanted to be near her and to lay Dsôn Faïmon and Tark Draan at her feet.

I would have named cities after her and erected temples in her name.
Despair burned in his soul.
And now she disowns me without telling me the cause!

A few paces ahead a solitary älf stumbled along, then collapsed, grabbing his belly and his chest. He rolled from side to side. Moaning, he tried to drink from the puddles, before tearing at his robe.

Sinthoras slowed down as he reached the figure.

“Stop!” called one of his guards in a panic. “Don't touch him, whatever you do! He has—”

With a sound like the breaking of a fresh loaf the älf's belly burst open. Intestines and inner organs flowed onto the street and a warm rain drenched Sinthoras. The älf died with a loud groan.

“Get back!” came the warning again and Sinthoras was dragged back by the shoulders. A horrified exclamation followed.

Sinthoras could not take his eyes off the corpse. He could see the älf's shriveled organs on the road.
They look as if they were boiled.
Then he saw something moving in the entrails. “What is that?” He moved a little closer.

Purple threads the length of his little finger pulsated in the dead älf's guts, breaking through the stomach wall in hundreds and swarming off to disappear among the pellets of the road.
It's not a sickness that has struck our nation! It's parasites!

Sinthoras took out his coin purse, emptied it and turned it inside out, then used the bag to pick up some of the worms, flipping it back the correct way when he had a handful. He fastened the top tightly so that none of the little worms could escape.

Getting to his feet he turned to one of his guards. “Take this to Wèlèron,” he instructed him. “It needs to go to the älf Bolcatòn—he needs to study this. Tell him exactly what you saw.”

But the guards drew back and one of them laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Are you—” Sinthoras noticed that something was dripping down his face. Wiping his brow with his index finger, he saw that he had blood on his hand. Someone else's blood.
They think I've become infected.
“It's not in the blood! It's the worms that bring death—” Then he realized that with the force of the exploding guts, it was very likely that some of the parasites had reached him.
Well, then, I'll go myself.
“You go to Timanris and tell her I want to see her.” He pointed to the other älf and continued, “And you, come with me. I'll need a night-mare.”

At first no one moved, but then one ran in the direction of Timansor's house, while the other followed the one-time nostàroi, keeping a safe distance away.

They went back to Sinthoras's house and collected a night-mare. Together with an escort that was nervously trying not to get too close, he galloped out of Dsôn toward Wèlèron, where the communities of academic älfar resided and where the schools of higher learning had been established. All known älfar wisdom was gathered in that place.

Is that the solution?
He had not put down the purse, which smelled badly of blood and excrement.
The dorón ashont must have introduced these parasites to their captive and then let him escape, knowing he would bring them to us.
He shuddered to think of the number of worms that had eaten their way out of the dead body.
There must be many thousands of them in Dsôn already.
The mere idea made his throat tighten with
fear.
The worms are multiplying all the time under our feet.
There could be no escape, if his understanding of the situation were correct: the worms could be anywhere; searching for all of them would take hundreds of moments of unendingness.

After a strenuous ride they reached the town of Arrilgûr in Wèlèron's outskirts.

This was an alien world for Sinthoras, one in which academic life was at the heart of things. He could not remember when he had last been there. Scholars held no sway in politics and thus had never been of any use to him. The only person he could approach was Bolcatòn—a high-ranking scholar specializing in medical matters. He chaired the civil research committee.

Sinthoras stopped the nearest älf and was soon directed to the main building: an imposing semicircle built of bone marble. The façade was shimmering white and the polished stones showed the lines that recalled their origins.

Let's hope he's good at his job. I don't know where else to go. Time is of the essence.
Sinthoras stormed noisily through the hallowed halls with his escort, brushing slaves and älfar servants aside until he had reached Bolcatòn's rooms. This was not the proper way to approach an älf of Bolcatòn's standing, but now was not the time to stand on ceremony.

He found the expert at his modest evening meal of bread and fruit; an opaque liquid filled a clear goblet next to an empty carafe. Bolcatòn seemed distinctly old, which was unusual for one of their kind.
I wonder how many dawns he has seen?

Sinthoras approached and sketched a small bow. “I must apologize for dispensing with the normal niceties,” Sinthoras said swiftly, halting five paces back from the table. He lifted the grubby purse. “I think I have found the cause of the sickness that is carrying off so many of our people in Dsôn.”

Bolcatòn, in his fiery red gown, was an august figure. His gray hair had been twisted into a complicated knot at the back of his head. Disgruntled at being so rudely disturbed, he addressed Sinthoras gruffly. “I thought you had come to arrest me,” he said. He removed the lid from the carafe. “Put it in here. Tell me why you think
you
have the solution
to the crisis facing our people. Soldiers are not known for making scientific discoveries.”

Sinthoras undid the cord on the bag and dropped the purse of threadworms into the transparent jug.

Bolcatòn closed the lid carefully before turning the carafe this way and that and shaking it gently until some of the worms wriggled out of the cloth purse.

“Purple phaiu su,” he stated, seemingly unsurprised. “They are quite choosy about what they eat, but we seem to be quite high on their list of delicacies.”

Sinthoras was taken aback. “You've seen them before? Why didn't anyone know what was happening in Dsôn?”

Bolcatòn tapped on the glass with the tip of his finger, irritating the little creatures. “And exactly who are you?” he asked. Sinthoras introduced himself briefly. “Ah, I see. The disgraced nostàroi.” Bolcatòn's tone was scornful. “Aren't you supposed to be obliterating the elf race? But it turns out we're the ones being wiped out. They will survive us.”

“Those are the words of a traitor,” Sinthoras said.

Bolcatòn was angry now, his eyes glinting. “It's you warriors, all you Comets and Constellations, that have brought us down with your eternal rivalries, arrogance and ambitions. All these accursed political intrigues and tricks, exerting your influence on the Inextinguishables and insisting upon a senseless expansionist campaign! Who is the traitor here? You will find it is not I.” Bolcatòn paused. “The war served one purpose and one purpose only: to get rid of the demon you brought.”

“What?” Sinthoras was at a loss. “Why should we have wanted to get rid of him? He has helped us.”

“That's another topic entirely. Let's deal with this one. The purple phaiu su here represent an acute danger. I have known for a long time that they are the root cause of the apparent infection raging in Dsôn. The Inextinguishables have been fully informed.”

“And what has been done about it? An älf just exploded on a public thoroughfare in front of me! The solution in place can't be all that effective.”

“So I see,” said Bolcatòn, staring at the distraught älf's clothes. “I am acquainted with these parasites. They decimated the troops that were sent south to suppress the nations there. That was in the time of the old gods: Shmoolbin, Fadhasi and Woltonn. The worms crawl in at night through nose or mouth, make their way to the stomach and lay eggs; the hatchlings eat the flesh and the blood of the host, secreting an anesthetizing substance so that the victim is unaware of their presence. This substance eventually comes into contact with the stomach, and reacts so strongly with the acids there that the host more or less explodes. As indeed you saw. With the end of the southern gods the purple phaiu su were forgotten about.”

How old is he if he can recall those past wars?
“Is there no remedy?”

Bolcatòn indicated his supper. “This is a food combination the phaiu su are not partial to. It gives some protection, and taking a loffran infusion helps to prevent them from entering the host. If you are already affected by the parasites the loffran encourages them to leave, but if the intestines are already too damaged, the victim will, of course, quickly leave unendingness.”

I must let Timanris know at once!
Sinthoras stared at the expert. “But surely everyone in Dsôn should be told? We should provide the loffran infusion to the whole population, put containers of it out in the streets—”

“You would have to saturate the entire city with it if you want to eliminate the worms entirely,” Bolcatòn argued. “The bone particles the roads are made of provide the ideal habitat for the creatures. I told the Sibling Rulers this, too. But there is another problem.”

“Which is?”

“Loffran is not much cultivated, nor is it a respectable method of treatment—we have moved on. In Shiimal it's not grown at all. It's only found growing wild in the area between Wèlèron and Avaris. I've had it planted there, but now the dorón ashont hold that land. Half the fields have been destroyed and the others can't be harvested because they're within range of enemy catapults.”

Fear fastened its grip on Sinthoras's heart. “What can be done?” Sinthoras asked.

Bolcatòn took a sip of the cloudy liquid. “The city needs to be burned down and built anew. The phaiu su are unlikely to flourish outside of Dsôn. They are at home in Ishím Voróo's south, but they will bring Dsôn to a standstill. The Black Heart will cease to beat.”

Sinthoras looked at the carafe where the worms were coiling and wriggling. They were slowly dying, exposed to the remains of the loffran infusion.
It would be so easy to save Dsôn. Curse the dorón ashont!
“Where do you get the loffran roots?”

“Before the uprisings I took in a reasonable harvest. The roots were dried and ground into powder. This works just as effectively as the fresh root, but we don't have enough to save Dsôn.” Bolcatòn wiped his mouth. “One might almost think a time of knowledge and research, not war, is upon us. Only we had the foresight to study and find answers, while the Comets and the Constellations—so busy with power and influence—were unaware of the danger.” He gave a quiet laugh and tapped his forehead. “Knowledge is power. And since I know more than you do, I am obviously more powerful. I'm sure you will agree.”

I'm going to need this remedy for Timanris and myself.
“How much can I buy from you?”

Bolcatòn smiled patronizingly and spread his arms. “You were a nostàroi and a hero of the empire. And you have shown initiative and presence of mind in coming to me with the parasites. For this reason I am prepared to give you a small container of it; eat a spoonful once every moment of unendingness. The purple phaiu su will not come near you.” He pushed the carafe to the edge of the table. “Look.”

The worms were all dead at the bottom of the glass jug. “So simple,” he murmured.

“So simple, indeed.” Bolcatòn sent a servant to fetch the remedy. This was handed to Sinthoras. “May I wish you luck at your hearing. If Samusin is on your side he will have sent a few worms to your accusers and nobody will be able to pursue a case against you.”

Not a bad idea!
He bowed to the scholar and withdrew, clasping the small box—its contents more precious to him than all the gold in Tark Draan. He was not inclined to express any thanks to Bolcatòn after the insults he had been offered. But really, it was not important any longer.

I could have some of the parasites sent to Polòtain and I'd be free of him. He won't have heard about the effects of the loffran root.
He felt his guards' eyes on him; they were well aware that he carried the only effective treatment against the ravages of the phaiu su. As they walked back through the corridors of the academy he dipped his moistened finger into the yellow powder and licked it.