Devastating Hate (15 page)

Famenia was groping her way to the door. He grabbed her fair hair and pulled her to her feet.

She screamed and struggled to get free but her flying fists were not powerful enough to have any effect on him.

He pressed the bloody blade up against her bare throat. “Do you realize your own importance, little barbarian? If you had gotten to the king and warned him, you would have ruined—” Carmondai felt a tug at his pocket.
The amulet! She's got it . . .

A blaze of dazzling light blinded him and the pain in his eyes made him put an arm up to shield his face. He let Famenia go and hit out, punching her. She cried out.

There was a crackling sound and the smell of some unfamiliar gas, then a wave of heat struck him in the chest.

He was lifted into the air and hurled backward through the closed window, shattering the heavy pane of glass and the wooden shutters as he tumbled onto the street in a series of somersaults.

Magic . . .
He was unable to move. Every inch of him hurt. Warm liquid ran out of his eye sockets and over his cheeks. It was as if his eyeballs were dissolving. It took him several attempts before he was able to struggle to his feet.

He touched his face gingerly.
My eyes are still there!
But he could see nothing at all. He was terrified he had lost his sight forever. How could he remain a master of word and image if that was the case?
Keep calm! I must get out of here before she can warn the guards on the gate.
He stumbled along the alley.

A strong wind plucked at his clothes before a loud bugle call sounded the alarm.

Carmondai heard doors opening and shutters being flung back, and a buzzing of excited voices out on the street. He squashed himself into a handy niche, enveloped in his own wreaths of darkness to avoid discovery.
Curse that wretched famula!

His sight returned bit by bit. He could see fiery circles dancing in front of his eyes, but the relief he experienced was quite indescribable. Even he, in fact, was lost for words.

The townspeople stormed past him, some heavily armed, some only with knives or a stick.
They must think their settlement is facing immediate invasion.

I've got to get out of Halmengard! I have to tell Caphalor that our plan has been discovered!
He would not tell the nostàroi that his own attempt to stop the famula escaping had failed, otherwise it would be him bearing the brunt of Caphalor's anger instead of, say, Armatòn.

Jumping back up to roof height, he moved quickly back to the tavern to collect his precious saddlebags with their irreplaceable drawings and notes. He did not stop to collect his horse so that he could slip over the fortified walls and away. In a few moments he was back over the wall and on the road to the Gray Mountains.

The weather was unhelpful. After about half a mile a powerful storm blew up and flying branches forced him off the road to find shelter.

What this failure of his would mean for the whole campaign he could not bear to imagine. This particular chapter of the Tark Draan campaign was definitely not one to be written up.

While he lay in a hollow in the ground, desperate for the violent storm to pass, he consoled himself with the thought that the crack team of älfar scouts had not managed to capture Famenia, either. They had not even found her in the first place.
So the whole
älfar
invasion plan would have been foiled one way or another.

But this personal fiasco burned in his soul like fire.

The night had passed and the sun was rising, but the storm had hardly abated at all; the wind was still howling through the trees and raised huge dust clouds that meant vision was restricted.

Now I understand why they've built their houses like little fortresses of stone. If you had a proper roof with shingles you'd be out replacing the tiles half the night with storms like this.
Carmondai resolved to continue his journey, storm or no storm. Given the importance of the news, the barbarians would certainly be trying to get a messenger through to their king.

Carmondai bent double and ran along in the ditch beside the road. He had thought the ditches extraordinarily deep the previous day when he had seen them from the saddle. Now he could see why: running along them he had considerable protection from the wind and would be safe from the flying debris.

The wind did not die down until the afternoon.

Carmondai returned to the road and kept up steady progress at a run. That night he stole a horse from an isolated farm and raced it across the miles until they reached the gate into the Gray Mountains. Neither he nor the horse was granted the slightest rest.

The watch recognized him and let him in.

With a fresh horse that Armatòn gave him, he hurried through the groundling tunnels and reached the nostàroi's quarters five moments of unendingness after leaving Halmengard. Covered in dust and dirt and drenched in horse sweat, he barged his way into Caphalor's private tract of rooms to find him seated at supper and alone.

“I've seen her,” said Carmondai, not bothering with social niceties. “She is riding south with a troop of armed men. People told me she was going to speak to her king to warn him about a black-eyed threat.”
Please don't let him notice I'm lying through my teeth.

Caphalor, wearing a simple black and red robe that did not in any way reflect his status as a nostàroi, calmly placed his knife and fork back on the edge of the plate and gestured to Carmondai to sit down. “You look tired and hungry.” He called the servants to bring more food. “Please, tell me what has happened.”

And Carmondai began to tell a mixture of fact and fiction: how he had pursued the magus's young pupil, how he had managed to locate her in Halmengard, but had not been able to approach her without running the risk of revealing himself, thereby confirming her story. He did not mention the amulet at all, nor his own miserable fighting performance. “She will be with their king very soon,” he said.

Caphalor had been listening attentively, taking occasional sips of water. “Possibly. They will certainly be sending scouts to the Gray Mountains to check the validity of her story. However fine Durùston's replacement groundlings are, it won't be long before someone smells a rat and they realize the girl is telling the truth.” He swirled the water slowly in his goblet and said nothing more.

Carmondai drank and stared at the delicacies on his plate, but he was not hungry. He was too apprehensive to eat. He poured himself some more water and raised the cup to his lips.

“How well do you know Sinthoras?” Caphalor said without warning.

Carmondai put down his goblet. “He's not exactly a friend of mine . . .”

Caphalor stared at him intently. “That's not what I meant. I want to know if you think you can get inside his head? Do you have a feel for how he moves, and the way he dresses? How he talks?”

“I could do a passable caricature if that's what you want. Why do you ask?”

Caphalor leaned back in his chair, his hands on the table in front of him. “I have to give the order to move off before winter gets here and before the barbarians gather their own army, or we'll be trapped in the groundlings' tunnels, but the army and the demon won't want to contemplate going into battle without both their nostàroi.”

Carmondai understood. He felt queasy at the thought. “You're asking me to—”

Caphalor shook his head. “No, I'm not asking. I'm commanding. That way, if,
if
the deception is found out, you can tell the world later you were only following orders. The blame will be mine. But if you do your job well, nobody will ever know that Sinthoras wasn't around right from the very beginning of the campaign.”

Carmondai reached out for some strong red wine, filling his drinking vessel to the brim and draining it at one go.
Why didn't I stay in Dsôn?

“You are the only one I could trust with this. It's too important a secret,” Caphalor went on. “If I don't march my troops into Tark Draan in the next few moments of unendingness, we endanger the whole undertaking. The enemy would have the entire winter to hatch a plan of action against us. The magi would be in on things and we'd lose any chance of putting them out of action.”

“Nostàroi, I—”

Caphalor leaned forward. His eyes were icy and hard. “You don't have a choice, Carmondai: I am turning you into Sinthoras. Whether you like it or not.”

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

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

late summer.

Sinthoras got out of bed, leaving Timanris—who had fallen asleep following their extended bout of lovemaking—to rest. He had an appointment that was going to be far less romantic.

He dressed in the lobby and put on an inconspicuous mantle over his simple suit of armor, taking care that the hood hid his features.
Nobody must recognize me.

Passing Timansor's collection of weapons, he noted a heavy club that must have come from somewhere in Ishím Voróo. It had probably once been wielded in the calloused hand of a stinking green-skinned óarco.

Exactly what I need.
He took it out of the glass cabinet and concealed it under the fabric of his mantle before leaving the house and heading through the nocturnal streets. He crossed the marketplace and stopped at the statue of Robonor.

The two watchmen looked at him, waiting nonchalantly as he approached.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where I would find the artist that made this? The statue is so . . .”

“The
artist?
” repeated the guard on the right. The two watchmen exchanged glances. As they were doing so, Sinthoras made his move. He kicked one of them on the chin, putting him out of action, and smashed the other one on the helmet with his club, rendering him unconscious.

“You should have let me finish: the statue, I was going to say, is so humiliating, insulting and slanderous that I cannot put up with it any longer.”

He shattered the onyx marble statue with violent blows, leaving only the plinth behind. Taking the piece of red gold that had been used to represent the wound, he hurried off.

He felt enormous relief.
That was probably not very sensible, but it needed to be done.

Of course, he already knew who had made the statue.

After a brisk walk he was standing in front of the artist's house and pounding hard on the door until it was opened by a veiled slave.

“I am not expected, but that is of no importance.” Before the slave could do anything, Sinthoras knocked her to the ground, slamming the door behind him. “Mistress!” he called, in what he wanted to sound like the slave's voice. “You have a visitor!”

“Who, by all the infamous ones, has the nerve to disturb me at this time of night?” Itáni shouted furiously from upstairs. “Get rid of them!”

“I will.”
So that is where you are!
It was all Sinthoras needed to know. He glided up the steps and followed the sound of a hammer tapping the end of a chisel. He stopped in front of her studio, took a deep breath and stormed in without warning.

Itáni swirled around with her sculptor's tools in her hands. She had nearly finished a basalt statue of an älf whose face Sinthoras did not recognize. The stone she was sculpting from was supported by a wooden frame to prevent it from toppling. “What are you doing?” she yelled at him. “Who are you?”

Sinthoras brought out the metal wound that had originally been part of Robonor's statue and threw it at Itáni's feet. “That's all that's left of your statue,” he said icily, throwing back his hood. “I am impressed by your work, but not by the lies that you are spreading. You have put your gift in the service of the wrong cause.”

Itáni lowered her arms and stared at him. Fine black dust covered the light beige robe she wore. She wiped her face. “The nostàroi in person. What an honor that you should come and confess your ill-advised deed in this way. You can't be very bright if you've let yourself be carried away like that.”

“Polòtain gave you the commission; it's down to him that your statue no longer exists.”

She nodded. “That's what he thought, too. That's why he commissioned four further copies.” She laughed at him. “Oh, you should see your face, Nostàroi! You had no idea whom you have made an enemy out of. I assume you have heard the rumors?”

Sinthoras experienced a surge of anger that brought jagged black lines of fury to his face. “Then it's high time to show those friends how dangerous it is to antagonize me,” he said in a threatening whisper,
lifting the club. “No one will connect me with this weapon, and no one knows that I have come back to Dsôn,” he murmured as his hatred intensified—an emotion that really should have had Polòtain as its target.
I'll deal with him next. Death by means of a crude óarco cudgel will be suitably shaming for him.

Itáni's confidence drained away. She edged away. “You wouldn't dare,” she said quietly, feeling for the whistle that hung around her neck.

“Oh yes, I dare.” Sinthoras leaped forward, swinging the club straight at the middle of her body.

She sidestepped and the club crashed against the basalt, breaking off part of the statue she had been working on. She shrieked as if the damage had been to her.

Sinthoras whirled around and struck again, missing her once more. She stumbled over the block of basalt and lost her balance, falling onto the dusty floor.

The next second Sinthoras was standing over her, his right foot on her throat to keep her from screaming. “Let your art decide. Your own creation shall be your judge.” With his left hand he swept the wooden supports aside, grabbed the statue and pushed with all his might. “I wonder if your art will let you live?”

The block of stone started to tilt and then overbalanced. Just before the statue hit the ground, Sinthoras pulled his foot away from her throat. The stone crashed onto the upper body of the sculptress, breaking her ribs and crushing the inner organs.

Itáni uttered a stifled cry as a gush of blood spurted out of her mouth.

“So, Polòtain's friends have not helped you much, have they?” he mocked. “Your death bears the name Sinthoras. And it comes because you accepted Polòtain's commission.” He twirled the sharp-edged metal wound from Robonor's statue in his hand, then jabbed it into her neck. Her eyes clouded over and her gaze broke. Her soul departed into endingness.
That's what you get for your trouble.

Shocked voices and hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. Her household servants were nearing the studio. They would know immediately that a murder had been committed. The weapon sticking out of Itáni's throat was a clear enough message.

No other artist will dare work for Polòtain after this.
In order that there should not be the slightest doubt about how serious he was, he shattered her beautiful face with a swift blow from his club.

Then he put his hood up over his blond hair and escaped through the window.

He hurried through the streets with a broad grin on his face. His hate had transformed itself into a state of euphoria: Robonor's statue and its creator had both been eliminated.

But Sinthoras had not completed his revenge.

When he reached Polòtain's house he slowed down and concealed himself in a niche in the wall, watching the two guards at the gate.

His immediate instinct had been to smash Polòtain's brain with his cudgel, but he was having second thoughts.
That would cause too much commotion.
The two armed älfar on the gate would not be the only ones he would have to contend with. For the sake of his own safety he would have to act more cautiously than he had done with Itáni.
I will content myself with something symbolic. A really clear sign.

Sinthoras slipped out of the niche and ran along in the shadow, club raised for action as he neared the watchmen.

His attack took the two dozing älfar completely by surprise. The first clout felled one of the guards and left him groaning on the ground.

The second älfar raised his shield to ward off a blow, but the impact smashed the iron-reinforced wood and the guard crumpled to the floor. A kick to the skull quickly saw him lose consciousness.

That was easy. Polòtain's people are useless.
Using the spikes on the cudgel he scratched the word SLANDERER into the gate and under it he wrote YOU WILL GET YOUR JUST DESERTS, AS EVERY LIAR WILL.

I want Polòtain quaking in his boots, terrified for his life.
He hurled the bloody club, which still had Itáni's hair and bits of Robonor's statue sticking to it, over the wall and heard it land in the courtyard.

He sped away, making tracks for Timansor's family home.

Satisfied with his achievements, he stole into the house by the back door, took off his mantle and went up to Timanris's chamber.

To his surprise he saw light under the door; she must have woken up.

Curses!
A thousand thoughts burst into his mind; foremost was the fear that his recent exploits would be discovered.

After running his fingers through his blond hair to tousle it, he undressed and entered the bedroom, acting astonished to see her sitting up. “Oh! I'm sorry! Did I wake you when I got up?” he said, pretending to be sleepy.

“No. A messenger from Tark Draan woke me,” she replied, looking at him inquisitively. “It was some time ago, but the messenger couldn't find you anywhere in the house.” The question this posed lay unasked in the air, along with suspicion and silent reproach.

A messenger from Tark Draan? What could that be about?
Sinthoras put on a cheerful expression. “I was hungry and I went to the kitchen in search of something sweet. I looked in the pantry as well.” He grinned and came over to give her a kiss. “He and I must have kept missing each other. The curse of being able to move silently.” He stroked her hair. “Do I still taste of the honey gingernuts?”

Timanris's scowl softened. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. “No,” she said, disappointedly. “You might have brought me some.”

That was close.
“So, who is this messenger?”

“Caphalor sent him.” Timanris released him. “Go and find him. He's in the servants' kitchen. He looked pretty impatient.”

There's something afoot in the Gray Mountains
, thought Sinthoras, beginning to be very worried. He left the room swiftly, dressed quickly and hurried downstairs where he found the messenger at table.

“Nostàroi! Greetings,” he said, getting to his feet. “I have a letter for you that Caphalor handed to me himself.” He drew out a leather wallet wrapped in waxed paper. “I was told to give it to you personally, not to anyone else.”

Sinthoras sat down, broke open the seal and unfolded the letter, recognizing his friend's handwriting on the parchment. He read the summons to return immediately to the Gray Mountains. The demon, it said, and the rest of the allies, were becoming restless. Winter was fast approaching and the window for a successful sortie into Tark Draan was closing fast. The letter ended: “Give Timanris my best regards, but she
is to send you on your way without delay. After a quarter of a division of unendingness you can return triumphant, and she can greet you as a victorious hero in Dsôn.”

I've only just got here and I'll have to leave!
Sinthoras turned to the messenger. “What else did Caphalor say?”

“He said not to let you write an answer—I have to bring you back with me, Nostàroi.”

Sinthoras passed the leather folder back, but tossed the parchment into the stove where it quickly caught fire and disintegrated. “Tell Caphalor that something important came up. I've got to stay and sort it out,” he commanded. “It concerns something that could endanger our official function and our reputations as nostàroi. I am sure he will understand that I cannot return to the army yet, though I shall be as quick as I can.” He got to his feet. “Finish your meal and get some rest. You should leave at dawn. But remember that you have not seen me here in Dsôn if anyone asks. Nobody except Caphalor is allowed to know.”

“Of course, Nostàroi,” the älf responded, bowing. “I swear it on my life.”

Sinthoras left the kitchen and returned to Timanris. He explained quickly that Caphalor had summoned him back to the Gray Mountains.

“Shouldn't you go at once? The longer you stay here the more likely it is that someone will recognize you,” she urged. “If that happened it would put you in a bad light.”

Sinthoras was deep in thought. He had wanted to see Polòtain's reaction and he was eager to spend more time with his beloved.
But she is right. If anyone should recognize me, I'm bound to be suspected of Itáni's murder.
He kissed Timanris fondly on the neck. “How wise you are. I'll leave tomorrow night. That way I can spend the whole day with you.” He patted the bed. “Right here.”

Timanris laughed.

These delightful plans were not to be.