Devastating Hate (5 page)

Carmondai realized the archer was offended.
Perhaps I upset him when I interrupted him just now?
“One more thing: this armor, it's made from some sort of textile; is it really sturdy enough?”

Arviû gave him the sort of look you would give a child who had asked a stupid question. “That's another thing you ought to know yourself, Carmondai.”

“But it will be better in your own words.”

Arviû's face showed scorn as he continued his discourse. “What you see here is the top covering, worn over a long surcoat composed of many layers that are glued together. These provide flexibility and provide plenty of protection against sword thrusts and small missiles.” His smile was cold. “An archer will always be more concerned about his own ease of movement. That's what will enable him to knock an enemy out before he has a chance to strike.” He ran his hand over the fabric. “Soft silk can withstand steel if you know how to conduct yourself. End of story.” With a wordless gesture the älf strode off, followed by his retinue.

Carmondai watched the älf leave the hall in silence, then finished off his drawings and put his notebooks and writing implement away.

He paused for a moment and thought carefully—recently he had been confronted with many things that reminded him of his past, and he did not want to let the past affect his behavior in the present—but his spirit was undisturbed.
I don't know if that's a good thing.
Carmondai sighed.
The old life, I'd like to forget all about it.
He let his gaze wander across the hall one last time. He went back to the storage chests wondering what else Arviû had been aiming at.

The archer's arrows had destroyed every lock. He had not missed a single target.

Carmondai wrenched the shaft out of one of the chests. The arrow tip was designed to penetrate metal. With one arrowhead like that an archer could pierce and kill three or even four barbarians all at the same time.
I've heard that's how Arviû tests out his modifications: aiming at prisoners in body armor.

He dropped the arrow and walked rather aimlessly along the corridor. He didn't have a lot to do until the evening, when he had a meeting with Virssagòn, to learn about his recent innovations in weaponry.

An army could not afford to take an entire new range of weapons and armaments with them: forging huge numbers of newfangled swords, lances and axes would be ridiculously impractical. But Virssagòn had other talents the nostàroi might want to employ: where others bore details on their armor denoting the number of enemies dispatched, he bore a single rune that indicated he had simply stopped counting, so
great was the number. Carmondai knew of no other warrior who had distinguished himself in that way. Not even Sinthoras or Caphalor.

And myself? How will I fare in the coming divisions of unendingness?
He had mixed feelings about his appointed task.

On the one hand he felt flattered, but on the other the risks were enormous. It was quite possible none of his reports and poems would ever reach their intended audience in Dsôn Faïmon, because he might be killed during his Tark Draan mission: stabbed or strung up, crushed by a falling rock, tortured by barbarians, or come to some other unglamorous end.

Carmondai was so deep in thought he was not paying attention to where he was going—until he noticed the corridors were getting narrower and the ceiling lower. He assumed he had been moving away from the stronghold and was inadvertently on the point of exploring the realm of the groundlings. All by himself.

Not the brightest of ideas.
He glanced down at his short sword: not enough in the way of defense. He turned back.

He eventually reached a hall where a group of óarcos were tucking noisily into stewed meat and gnawing on the bones; Carmondai had no wish to know what kind of meat it was.

This is no place for me.

One of the monsters raised its head and grunted. The whole group stopped guzzling and stared at Carmondai. A furious roar swelled up. There was no mistaking the invitation to depart.

What an ugly bunch. Looks like they wanted to keep their party strictly to themselves.
He was not keen to enter into negotiations with these allies, so he skirted the gathering, keeping to the cave walls. “Revolting, stinking scum. Even a tenth of a division of unendingness ago we'd have chopped your heads off and ground your guts for paint,” he said to them in the dark language, with a steady smile on his face. “I hope many of you die horrible deaths in the Tark Draan campaign. If necessary, our own warriors will see to that as soon as we have no further use for you.”

“What was that?” one of them growled in a barbarian dialect. “Wot you mumbling bout?”

“I said I did not wish to disturb you at your fine meal.” This time Carmondai was using the same primitive language. “I do not want to share.
It is all yours, but would you please be so kind as to tell me how to get to where my own folk are camping out?” They still did not understand what he was saying, so he repeated his request slowly.

Instead of giving him a sensible answer, they chucked away the bones they were chomping on and came over to him, drawing their swords. One of them gave an ugly laugh. “Snooooty clever dick,” one of them roared. “Think you can make stoopid jokes with stoopid talk like stoopid flowers?”

As the beasts approached, a wall of óarco beer-breath rolled toward him. He recognized the smell from the other hall. Carmondai looked to his left and saw an empty barrel, once full of dwarf ale.

Oh. Thanks a lot, gods of infamy! Just my luck to run into a horde of drunken óarcos raring for a fight.
He took a step backward and moved his drawing folder safely onto his back.

“Let me ask you nicely one more time,” he said, but the way they laughed made it clear they were not going to oblige him with the information he wanted.

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

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

summer.

Polòtain cast his eyes critically over the onyx marble statue of an älfar warrior in full armor. Contrary to traditionally favored poses, this life-sized representation did not show the subject in fighting stance. The soldier bore his weapons on his back, with his three-cornered shield in his right hand; his left arm was raised, the index finger pointing accusingly. In denunciation.

Sunlight from the high studio windows illuminated the work, making it glow as if lit internally. Long dark bands within the stone showed like veins, and there was a burst black lump in the center.

“I particularly like the way you have rendered the broken heart, Itáni,” Polòtain murmured as he placed his hand caressingly on the statue's cold neck and pressed his forehead against the stone brow. “My dearest Robonor,” he whispered. “How I miss you.”

“My heartfelt thanks for your appreciation and praise.” Itáni moved away from the wall where she had been leaning. She was wearing a gray and white robe covered, as were her face and hands, with light-colored dust. “It has been an honor to carry out this commission for you.” She went around to the rear of the statue and squatted down to point out where she had emphasized the wound in the älf's leg, inserting red gold and allowing it to run down to denote trickling blood. “The alloy I have used absorbs heat by day and allows the wound to appear to shimmer by night. No one passing, even at a distance, could fail to notice.”

Polòtain took a deep breath. “A masterly work of art, Itáni! I shall pay twice what we agreed. No one else in Dsôn could possibly have done better.” He ran his fingers over the black embroidered runes on his grayish yellow robe. Two badges of honor shone at his breast. These were decorations granted him for his past achievements. They were as nothing to him now.

“I am humbled by your generosity.” The artist stood up and bowed to him. “I know it is what you asked for, but would it not have been appropriate to portray him in a heroic pose?”

“A hero's life was not granted to him. He was not granted the chance to join the campaign against Tark Draan and to fall honorably in battle when his time came,” Polòtain replied in a somber tone. “He was betrayed and killed in the most cowardly manner. I want everyone to know! The statue of my great nephew will be a permanent reminder to the guilty until his death is avenged.”

Itáni summoned a slave by giving a short blast on a whistle she wore around her neck. Refreshments were brought; she partook of fruit wine while Polòtain selected the stronger brandy liqueur. “You realize what this may mean for you?” she asked carefully.

“It is good of you to want to warn me, Itáni,” he replied with a sad smile.

“I'm just afraid of losing my best patron and ending my days penniless,” she joked. Then, becoming serious, “Even you cannot risk challenging a nostàroi in this way. He has become very powerful. After the victory in the Gray Mountains he will be able to ask the Inextinguishables for anything he wants. He will go crazy when he hears about Robonor's statue because he'll know exactly what it means.”

Polòtain's melancholy smile had not faded. “Have I told you where I want it to stand?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I thought it would be in front of your family house in Avaris.”

He shook his head, the long blond hair with its gray strands brushing his dark summer coat.

“That would not have the desired effect.” Polòtain swirled the drink in his cup. “I have purchased a trader's stand on the marketplace. For one division of unendingness the pitch belongs to me.”

“But that's immediately opposite the nostàrois' plaque of honor,” Itáni exclaimed. She was also aware that one of the main roads crossed that square. Whenever the nostàroi entered Dsôn, he would perforce pass the statue. He would have to walk past this life-sized accusation. “By all that's infamous! Sinthoras will hate you for that.”

Polòtain lowered his head, lines of fury crisscrossing his face. “And what do you think I feel for my great nephew's murderer? Admiration? I am the only älf in Dsôn Faïmon to detest the nostàroi, the greatest
general in the history of our peoples, from the bottom of my soul. I detest him to such a degree that I do not even wish him to enter endingness. I want him crushed and humiliated before me in the gutter! Then I shall press his arrogant face into the filth with my foot, so his lungs fill with excrement and he suffocates!” The cup shattered into glass slivers in his hands. “You see how this unimportant, trivial matter upsets me,” he whispered. “Here I am destroying your valuable tableware.”

Itáni sent for water and a cloth so that he might wash his hands. “I am glad you have not injured yourself.” Slaves appeared and swept up the broken pieces. “I understand how you must feel, my friend.”

“The worst thing is that nobody else seems to object to how Timanris openly betrayed him,” he said as if he were on his own, while he wiped his hands. “She has taken up with the murderer of the älf who worshipped her and with whom she should have produced at least one child.” He sighed deeply, as if unable to bear the sorrow any longer. Polòtain focused his black eyes on Itáni. “Can you arrange to have the statue erected on the marketplace? Your people will know how to handle a work of art better than my slaves will.”

She bowed. “Of course. I'll see to it at once.” She drained her cup. “Onyx marble withstands all weathers and won't be affected by frost. But it will be vulnerable to cuts or blows. You should set a guard if you want it to last. I fear there will be more than one attack made on it. Either Sinthoras will pay someone to do it, or it might be defaced by frenetic admirers of the nostàroi, who will be calling you a liar.”

“I've thought about that. I'll come up with something.” Polòtain shook hands with her. “My thanks again for this incomparable likeness of my beloved great nephew. Until we meet again.” He departed, escorted to the door by a slave.

Polòtain left the house of the sculptress and suddenly felt a pain in his heart. He put his hand to his breast and took deep breaths. His grief at Robonor's passing caused him more anguish than any physical injury he had ever sustained in all his time as a warrior. And yet his distress would serve as a motivating force. He would not give up until revenge was his. He dismissed his litter-bearers. He wanted to walk and follow his own thoughts.

Polòtain found it unbearable that Robonor's own father had done nothing but was prepared, on the contrary, to believe the line that his son had died in an accident and that it had been so decreed by fate.

But Polòtain was all too familiar with this kind of fate: älfar hands had given fate plenty of help here. He was well versed in such intrigues; were it otherwise he would not himself have achieved such a high position among the Comets.

The Comets were convinced that the future of the älfar depended on expansionism, increasing the territory under their control. The Constellations, on the other hand, insisted the best strategy was to build more and better border defenses. Each faction had been trying to persuade the Inextinguishables that their own view was the correct one.

The sibling rulers would, of course, be deciding for themselves what should happen in Dsôn Faïmon, but the views of their people and, in particular, of the elite were important.

Polòtain had retired from his function as a Comet leader nearly ten divisions of unendingness previously to live on his estate in Avaris, leaving Robonor in charge of his city property in Dsôn. But when Sinthoras—a member of the same political faction as himself—acted with such despicable trickery, it was more than his soul could bear to sit and do nothing. He still had his network of connections in all six of the radial arms. He had already received a promise that should soon be bearing fruit.

“I'll have you on your knees, Sinthoras,” he murmured. “Don't you dare get killed in Tark Draan. I want you to have victory after glorious victory. The greater your fame, the more devastating your subsequent fall. How I shall enjoy it!”

Polòtain had no eye for the magnificent architecture around him; this was a part of the city where many artists dwelled. He ignored the convoluted buildings constructed in gray and colored wood or in compressed stone incorporating thin metal layers, with their decorations in white and black bone tiles, their carved window frames and many other features. He did not look at the cleverly sculpted evergreen bushes with their ornamental artworks tinkling in the gentle breeze.

He had lost all interest in art because beauty no longer had any relevance for him. Such was his hatred of Sinthoras and Timanris that he
had thrown out a number of outstanding pieces of work her famous artist father had created. He had gotten the lowliest of his household slaves to carry them out onto the street and destroy them in public view.

He took no notice when passers-by greeted him. He slouched along until his legs started to hurt and he was forced to use the litter his servants were carrying. After all, he was getting old.

When he thought back to his dreams of the future! Everything he had hoped and planned for his beloved great nephew! “My young hero—cut off in his prime,” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands, and wiping his tears on his sleeve.

Polòtain had thrown off his deepest despair before returning to his city residence; grief paralyzed one and prevented any clear thought. This was the most grueling battle he had ever waged and it was against an enemy in his own ranks and for whom he felt the most devastating hatred.

His servants halted and Polòtain got out of the litter.

Before he was halfway into the forecourt, his great-grandson Godànor rushed over, dressed in a black robe with wide white leather straps adorned with gold and silver at hip and across the chest. “There you are at last! You have a visitor.”

Polòtain suspected he knew who the visitor could be; would this be the promised assistance? “Why are you making it so mysterious?”

“I'm not. Ask me whatever you want.” Godànor took his arm and hurried him across the courtyard toward the slaves' quarters.

“Slow down! I've been walking all day.” Polòtain decided not to ask who was waiting for him.

Passing the slave building they reached a small smithy and Godànor opened the door.

There were two armed älfar waiting inside, their light armor marked with the insignia of Eranior. They had tied two humans, chained together, to the anvil. The barbarians were in dirty, torn clothing and cowered in fear as Polòtain and his grandson entered. An acrid smell from one of them suggested he might be suffering from some unpleasant chronic disease.

“Samrai and Chislar,” Godànor introduced the älfar at arms, then pulled out a letter to give his great-grandfather. “They brought you these two barbarians and this letter.”

Polòtain broke the seal and read the few short lines which wished him every success with his interrogation. These men were apparently two of the three slaves found brawling in the street on that fateful night. Robonor had been on the point of arresting them when he had been killed. The note went on to say that something extra would be arriving shortly.

Polòtain was elated. These barbarians were vital pieces in the mosaic of his case against Sinthoras!

He handed Godànor the letter and gestured to the ragged prisoners to stand up. They struggled to their feet at the anvil, their chains tightening. “Whose slaves are you?” He resented having to use their language. He took a fire iron and shoved it into the glowing furnace, telling Godànor to work the bellows.

“Do you mean who we belong to or do you mean who we serve?” came the reply from the barbarian who stank slightly less than the other one.

“What is your name?”

The slaves exchanged glances as if they were trying to ensure they did not say the wrong thing.

Polòtain used the fire iron to sweep red-hot coals in their direction. There was a smell of burning: clothes, hair and skin. The men screamed and batted the coals away as best they could. “Look at me, not each other!” he ordered, a terrifying coldness in his voice. “Did you serve Sinthoras?”

They shook their heads.

“Well?”

“I am Errec, and this is Amso. We . . . serve Halofór,” stammered the less unsavory one. “We always have done.”

“Landaròn's brother?” Polòtain broke into a malicious grin. Landaròn was Sinthoras's cousin and it was pretty clear that he would have done him the odd favor or two. “Did your master tell you to stage a brawl in front of the slaves' tavern?” He pulled the iron out of the fire and held the white-hot tip against the chains at the man's wrist. Smoke rose and heat transferred from one metal to the other. “What happened the night of the street fight?” He glared at the men in turn. “There were three of you, I understand. Where's the other one?”

“Dead. Under a carriage,” Errec rushed to answer, already in great discomfort. “Lordship, please! The fight was because he insulted us back at the inn. We dragged him outside to give him a beating but then the guards showed up and we made a run for it.” He shrieked and the smoke was different now. The stink of charred flesh spread throughout the forge.