Devastating Hate (17 page)

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered.
He has feelings for me?
She quickly drained her cup of water with its dash of thujona syrup.
How can I be sure?

He walked up and down the room, one hand on the pommel of the sword that hung by his side. “As I said: I am very pleased with you.”

“Thank you, Nostàroi.”

“It would be a waste to send you into battle.” He looked at the map. “I want you to head south. Use any trick that occurs to you. Let no one know you are an älf for the duration of the journey. Then, make the barbarians in the south worried—convince them that the elves are their sworn enemies and that we are the ones to save them!” He walked up to her and, with the fingertips of his right hand, touched her cheek. “Find all those who can be talked into joining our army.”

“A pact with the scum of Tark Draan?”

“Only on the face of it, Morana. We'll invite them to join us so that we can get to know them properly; it will be all the simpler to destroy them later on. We'll put them in the front line every time we go into battle. They can act as targets for the enemy's arrows. That's what allies are for, after all. At some stage we'll run out of óarcos and gnomes: Tark
Draan's residents will be substitutes for them.” His face displayed a malicious grin. “You can always entice a barbarian to do what you want if you offer them gold and land. Promise them riches and they won't fight against us, but go into battle on our behalf.” Caphalor touched her dark hair. “I know you'll be successful and I know I can rely on you.”

“Of course you can, Nostàroi.” She bowed her head.
If he's sending me away, then he can't be interested in me after all. Is that a good thing or not?
“Well, maybe I should get ready to leave.”

“Tomorrow is soon enough.” He stared intently into her blue-gray eyes. “Would you care to eat with me this evening, Morana? It would be in recognition of your achievements. And I have a gift for you from Virssagòn. Before he left he told me you had given him an idea for a new weapon. He said you'd be able to work out how best to use it.”

The invitation to dinner came as somewhat of a shock. “If you will excuse me, Nostàroi, I think it is important I be fully rested for tomorrow's mission, but I am grateful that you have honored—”

“I shall expect you after the benàmoi briefing,” he continued, ignoring her objection. “I am sure you will enjoy the meal. It will be a welcome change from the barbarian food you'll be putting up with again soon.” He moved to the tent flap and held it open for her. “Until this evening.”

I really don't understand. It's impossible to read him.
She walked slowly past him and avoided his gaze. She was not sure whether she should be looking forward to the coming evening or not.

Morana headed for the nostàroi's quarters.
My heart is thudding again!

A servant had come to tell her that the briefing session was over and that Caphalor was waiting for her.

She had secretly been hoping to get out of the dinner invitation. There was no way of knowing what was about to happen within the canvas walls of the tent—and what the consequences might be.

She felt nervous and indecisive.

She had not known how to dress for the occasion. As a member of the nostàroi's personal guard, she could have worn her armor, but Caphalor had emphasized that he was inviting her to join him for a meal, so she thought the uniform would be out of place. Instead, she had selected
a long, dark leather dress topped by a deep red bodice. The corsage was decorated with bones set with tionium, between which hung delicate silver chains. She had tied back her black hair and darkened her eyelids with charcoal—she had wanted to keep things simple so as not to give the wrong impression.

What impression do I actually want to make?
There was no question in her mind: Morana found Caphalor attractive. But there was something about him that disturbed her.

If he had not been the nostàroi she would certainly have been happy to indulge in a dalliance, but any subordinate who went in for such an arrangement would end up the loser.

It might work until Caphalor finds someone else and then drops me, but the whole of Dsôn would be laughing at me then.
Morana sighed and approached the tent hesitantly.
I should have left straightaway. It was stupid of me to agree to come tonight.

Passing the armed guards, warriors from her own unit, she picked up their unmistakable disapproval and envy.

And then she was standing in front of Caphalor, who had been waiting for her, dressed in a fine black robe. “Good evening, Nostàroi,” she said, starting to bow.

But he came up to her and held her arm. “No, don't bow. I'm not your commander tonight,” he said gently. “I am Caphalor. Caphalor pure and simple.”

It's as I thought!
She nodded. “The food smells good.”

He laughed. “Yes, the cooks have made something special for us tonight: something you can get in the finest inns back home, but not here in Tark Draan.” He stepped aside, letting her see the table.

A veritable banquet of Dsôn delicacies had been prepared. Several different wines stood ready in their jeweled carafes at the head of the table and two goblets had already been filled. There was a casket by the side of her place.

“I told them not to bring the dishes one after another, but to serve everything at once,” she heard him say. He was so close to her that she could smell the scent he used: it was heavy and spiced. “I thought it would be better if we were not disturbed.”

Of course. I should have known.
Morana sat down. “It's nice and quiet; I'm still feeling shaken up after my ride through Tark Draan.” Waiting until Caphalor was seated and had served himself, Morana chose some food and started to eat.

“The box is from Virssagòn,” he said, indicating the box to her right. “Don't forget to take it with you. He's very keen to know what you think of his new invention. He calls it Sun and Moon.”

She wondered what the weapon master had thought up. She ate in silence; the food was wonderful. It tasted of home. She started to hope she would be able to go soon, before . . .

“Do you know what I miss?” said Caphalor wistfully, as he cut the meat on his plate and added gravy.

“Your bed, perhaps?” she joked, afraid of hearing something she did not want to be told; something that would lead to complications.

“Somebody to share my problems with,” he said, before he took the next mouthful, chewing carefully and then swallowing before going on. “Take our briefing session just now: I had to listen to the benàmoi telling me that the óarcos and the gnomes are doing whatever they feel like. Some of them are heading off without waiting for orders: the trolls want to go east; there's some mountain range they've heard of they've taken a liking to. The ogres are apparently complaining they won't get the chance to win sufficient land for their needs. And the barbarians from Ishím Voróo are making a fuss about the way we're treating the barbarians in Tark Draan!” As the list grew longer, his voice got louder and louder until he slammed his fist down on the table, making the plates jump. “This is war and the allies are whining and fussing as if we were on some little outing! The only ones conducting themselves properly are our own warriors.”

“Does Sinthoras not help you?”

“Sinthoras?” Caphalor gave a bitter laugh. “He keeps to his bed and leaves it all up to me—commanding the chaos that calls itself our army.” He hurled his knife and fork onto the table and drained his goblet. He seemed to be looking straight through Morana. “I could talk about absolutely anything with
her
,” he whispered. “
She
always had time to
listen and knew how to advise me—she would always come up with some idea, some way out.” He shut his eyes.

Morana looked at him, uncertain of what to say or do.
Grief is eating him up.
She was torn between sympathy for him and caution. Finally she stood up, walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

Caphalor seized her hands as if he were a drowning man. “I am so glad you are there,” he whispered. “I need someone to confide in.” He tilted his head to one side, resting his cheek on her hand. A sigh of relief escaped him. “Someone to be close to . . .”

“I know how much it hurts when you lose someone you love, but I am not her,” said Morana gently.

Caphalor stiffened. “You think you know how much it hurts?”

“Yes. My brother—”

He gave a contemptuous laugh and raised his head. He grasped her hands hard, hurting her wrists. “You have never been near the depths of despair I have known!” He released his hold and leaped to his feet, staring at her as if she had been at fault—as if she were guilty of murdering his life companion.

I should never have come.
Morana avoided his eyes. “Caphalor, I was only trying—”

“You have absolutely no idea!” he roared. “No idea what it is like! No idea what has died in me! No idea what I want!” He turned abruptly, grabbed a carafe of wine and put it to his mouth, drinking greedily. Then he blurted out: “Every single moment of unendingness I long for death, but it has refused to find me: not in battle and not when I tried to starve myself. That's when I rode out to Tark Draan, the land that was responsible for what happened to her. But even here death avoids me. I am not granted any victory that might lessen my pain. The army is advancing mile after mile but the torture never ceases. It never stops burning and burning!” He threw the carafe down and it shattered. “And you have the nerve to say you know how it feels?”

My instincts were right.
Morana decided to leave. “Forgive me, I must—”

He strode over to where she was and kissed her violently on the mouth. Violently, but without warmth.

She pulled free and pushed him away so that he staggered against the table. “No, Caphalor! It's not me you want—you want your companion back!”

He was about to reply, but clapped his hands over his face. “What am I doing?” he muttered again and again.

I must not stay a splinter longer!
Morana picked up the box, turned and left the tent, hurrying past the guards who were obviously at a loss to understand what was going on. They had been on the point of entering the tent. “He's not well,” she told them. “Perhaps it's the same thing Sinthoras is suffering from.”

She flew back to her quarters and packed the things she would need for the mission, stuffing Virssagòn's new weapon into her bags without looking at it.
Time enough for that later.
She threw off her dress and put on her armor.

She hurried along to the stables, where she saddled one of the barbarian horses.

It doesn't matter what I feel for him, I cannot give in to his advances. Not as long as he carries the image of a dead love in his soul.

Morana swung herself up into the saddle and galloped out of the camp, ignoring shouts from one of the guards.

Morana did not want to be given any message. She did not want to hear from the nostàroi and she did not want to hear from Caphalor. From now on she would concentrate purely on her task: to win over barbarian monarchs as allies for their cause.

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

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

early autumn.

“How do you feel?”

Carmondai could hear Caphalor's voice through the helmet surprisingly well. He had forgotten what it was like to wear the head protection and the heavy armor. He was not wearing it to make himself feel safer but because, in the eyes of the troops, it turned him into Sinthoras. He gripped his night-mare's reins tighter in his gauntleted hands. “All right so far.”

The nostàroi laughed quietly. “Try sitting up straighter. Sinthoras loves everyone to see him. He likes to be admired.”

“But remember, I'm apparently still suffering from the mysterious sickness. Wasn't that what we agreed?” But Carmondai went ahead and adjusted his posture in the saddle.

“That's why I'm suggesting you stay toward the rear, giving support to the flank with your presence until we have closed our trap around the elves.”

Carmondai longed to open his folder and start drawing, but it would look very strange if the nostàroi were seen fooling around with paper and pencil. He turned his head and took in all the visual impressions so that he could use the images after the battle.

Caphalor was wearing armor that was almost identical to his own and only slightly less ornate than his ceremonial attire. The regular älfar troops eschewed heavy protective gear, preferring to rely on freedom of movement and their particular advantages: their agility and the range and strength of their longbows. They wore a simple leather body covering and a helmet and carried a small shield: very few of them even had arm and leg protectors.

The army advanced north at a brisk pace, heading away from the crater. A number of riders bringing up the rear dragged shrubs behind them to increase the cloud of dust their progress stirred up. It was important the enemy should see them coming.

“I wonder how the elves will react?” said Caphalor, not sounding as if he had any doubt as to the outcome of the battle.

Carmondai could smell the earth that was disturbed by their passage, mixed with the smell of the night-mares' sweat and the soft fragrance of the flowers of the Golden Plain.
War and beauty.
The nostàroi had explained his plan: Carmondai's contribution was to sit on his night-mare and stay away from the fighting, inspiring the soldiers with his presence. He was not to intervene and not to give any orders as the benàmoi had been given their instructions already. “What happens if the elves don't do what you have predicted? Won't the warriors near me expect me to give orders?”

“Everything will happen exactly as I have told you.”

“You've fought the elves so often that you know how they work?” Carmondai smiled under his helmet. “I am helpless with respect.”

“Just do exactly what we've discussed and raise the morale of the troops,” Caphalor said curtly. “Make the most of being the focus of admiration and keep your comments to yourself.”

“It won't be me they'll be admiring, but Sinthoras.”

“You will experience the honor on his behalf.” Caphalor readied Sardaî to move off. “Keep to the plan, and remember that you are Sinthoras when you are wearing this armor,” he reminded Carmondai. The nostàroi turned and rode off toward the rear guard.

Ye gods of infamy, let me live through the fighting!
Carmondai was reassured to know that ten of the Goldsteel troops were by his side, but he knew that in every battle there were unknowns even the sharpest mind could not cater for. Especially given that they were confronting an enemy who had not been tackled for many divisions of unendingness.
An eternity.
Carmondai did not know of a single älf who had ever fought against the elves.

He was amazed at how confident Caphalor appeared—and how sure he was that glorious victory would be theirs.

Carmondai surveyed his surroundings.

There were around 8,000 älfar cavalry nearby split into equal-sized units. In each of these units there were both archers and warriors trained in close combat, plus a few spear-carriers. The vanguard consisted of
around 4,000 älfar and the troops bringing up the rear numbered an unusually strong contingent of around 8,000 älfar.

They had no allied troops along with them, not even to employ as arrow-fodder: it was vital that the victory over the elves should be an undiluted älfar triumph. Caphalor had rebuffed the idea that they might incur unacceptable casualties in their own lines.

Carmondai faced the front.

The valley they were riding through had low hills with sharp rocks on both sides and was gradually getting narrower. Enemy archers could find excellent cover anywhere along the route.

I sincerely hope Caphalor knows what he's doing, or we'll be riding straight into a perfect trap.

A loud horn signal sounded: the enemy had been spotted.

Carmondai's detachment galloped to catch up to the front: the rear guard had their orders and fell back accordingly. They would be taking no part in the action: those 8,000 warriors would be sorely missed when the armies clashed.

When he rounded the corner he saw the elf army waiting for them at the narrowest point of the valley. There was no way around them. Their lines were less than 200 paces apart.

By all the infamous gods!

It was a surprise to see that the elves had heavy cavalry at their disposal. Their lances were significantly longer than the ones the älfar bore and both elves and horses were armored. Long banners of many colors waved in the breeze, swirling in the air and looping around each other.

Nobody mentioned the cavalry when we had that briefing!
Carmondai distinctly remembered hearing that the elves fought in a similar way to the älfar.
Perhaps the strategy advisers have overlooked the fact that we are on a plain.
It was obvious that an army in territory such as this would have adopted different fighting tactics, employing heavy lance-bearing troops.

Carmondai tried to calculate how many troops they were facing. He reckoned the enemy had almost equal numbers to their own.
They'll mow us down if we're not careful!

The enemy horsemen formed a solid block about 500 soldiers wide and there were sixteen rows behind the first line. Then Carmondai saw the infantry behind them: a broad wedge at the exit to the valley with subdivisions of light cavalry in between.

So the elves definitely had the upper hand as far as numbers were concerned and the älfar troops bringing up the rear would not be able to attack directly because of the way the valley narrowed.

Carmondai slowed his breathing inside his helmet.
They've done exactly what Caphalor said was impossible: behaved contrary to our expectations.
He was extremely concerned. It was as if he had been sent back in time to a period he had long forgotten about.

Even before the last of their own troops had moved into the valley, they could hear the fanfares being sounded by the foe. The armored cavalry of the elves rode steadily forward to reduce the gap between themselves and the älfar front line.

The älfar took up the formation they had previously agreed on: a row going from one side of the valley to the other with a spear-carrier next to each archer. But anybody with half a brain could see that a long, thin line of soldiers was not the best tactic when faced with a solid block of the enemy. Behind this line the rest of the archers had taken up positions, ready to shower the enemy with arrow-fire.

Carmondai realized that the enemy infantry was keeping out of the range of älfar archers.
The elves are leaving the decision-making up to the heavy cavalry. They must have total confidence in them.

The sound of thundering hooves grew louder: the elf cavalry were increasing the speed of their attack while still 1,000 paces away. They began to come in range of the älfar longbow archers.

He remembered a verse of poetry:

Nobody could have predicted this!
Arviû stared at the lines of elf cavalry. The army of the Inextinguishables did not have comparable units, but he did not doubt that his finely trained and well-equipped archers would be able to shoot the enemy out of their saddles.

He turned to his benàmoi. “Tell our archers to use the simple, long three-faced arrow tips. They should be just right for piercing armor.” His command was passed down the line.

We have chosen the wrong tactics.
Arviû was not deceiving himself on that score: a thin line of troops was not going to offer much resistance to the impact of a block of iron and armored horse. He could see exactly what the enemy had in mind.
They've got the right idea: they're attacking me and my archers to eliminate the long-distance weaponry. Then they will follow through with their infantry and the light cavalry.

He looked over to Sinthoras, motionless on his night-mare.
He will presumably have worked this out for himself?
The nostàroi's visor was closed, so Arviû could not see what he was looking at. Caphalor was farther up the line and would not be able to see what was happening here.

Arviû was not afraid. He was aware of what would happen if heavy cavalry charged his lightly clad troops.
It would be like crushing icicles with a sledgehammer.

He reached for his bow, which was three paces in length. Its asymmetric form meant he could fire from the saddle. He used his tongue to moisten the flight feathers. “Fly and bring death in my name,” he murmured as he signaled to the archers to make ready.

The nostàroi's command to fire must be imminent. If not, Arviû would lose many fine soldiers, even before battle had actually commenced.

Carmondai could see around half of the elf light cavalry breaking out from the ranks of the infantry and charging over the plain. They quickly covered the distance between them and the heavy cavalry and raised their bows.
They are providing fire cover to their own fighters!

The benàmoi were just giving the order to loose the älfar arrows when the first enemy missiles hit the front line. At the same time the elf heavy cavalry riders lifted their shields to protect themselves from the
älfar arrows. The elves were as efficient with their long-distance weapons as any älfar fighters.

This isn't going to work!
Carmondai envisaged the cavalry charge mowing a wide path through their ranks, winning the vital advantage; any conventional maneuvers on the part of the älfar were doomed to failure.
They are concentrating on putting our archers out of action.

Wounded soldiers were tumbling out of the saddle in front of him, night-mares collapsed bellowing to the ground, kicking wildly about them on the trampled grass.

Their älfar archers had responded to the hail of arrows, but were having far less effect on the ranks of the foe than the elves were on them. The armored enemy troops had taken a stand, protected by their shields. Only a small number of elves had fallen.

The elf light cavalry unit came to an abrupt halt, sending another veritable shower of missiles toward the älfar before turning and removing themselves from danger. They had fulfilled their task.

The number of injured and dead among their own älfar people was great, but their warriors were steadfast in keeping their position.

Barbarians would have turned and fled.

Carmondai calculated: another 500 paces and their cavalry will have reached our lines.

Arviû roared out his orders to the troops to prevent chaos from breaking out.

He could feel tension in the air. The nostàroi had still not changed the tactic that was proving utterly unsuitable: the armored riders were charging and would be breaking through their lines exactly where Arviû and his archers were standing. All of them saw disaster approaching fast, and there was no escape.

I shall lose half my troops! At least half!
What angered him most was that their arrows were having virtually no effect on the enemy. Their arrows would have pierced the elves' armor satisfactorily, but were useless against the heavy metal-clad shields that absorbed most of the impact.

If the nostàroi doesn't act soon, I will!
Arviû ordered his archers to speed up their volleys of arrows, hoping for chance hits.
It was as if the elves had known
, he thought,
exactly what to expect from the älfar longbows
.

All Arviû's battle senses were on high alert.

He danced his night-mare to the side just as two arrows flew past him.

I'll show you how to do things properly.
He could see that one of the elves was not holding his shield at the right angle, leaving a tiny gap.

Raising his longbow he notched an arrow, aimed and sent feathered death winging its way through the air.

His arrow flew toward the elves, slid past the edge of the shield and buried itself into flesh through the warrior's shoulder protection. The sudden pain caused the elf to drop his arm a little—quick as a flash Arviû aimed a second arrow through the visor now visible behind the shield and his adversary fell sideways and then back out of view.