Devastating Hate (3 page)

“What did you expect, knowing his previous history?” asked Horgàta.

“Don't try that one too often, Carmondai,” Sinthoras said in a low voice. “There are those I know whose pride cost them their life.” The jagged black line faded and disappeared. He reached for his cup and raised it, addressing the company with a toast. “Here's health to the Inextinguishables, success to our Tark Draan campaign and an end to the elves!”

I will have to be careful. There's something momentous in the planning here and I'd like to be part of it.
Carmondai drained his cup to quench his thirst and started to relax.

The nostàroi seemed to enjoy making their guests wait while the mouth-watering spicy aroma from the first dish infiltrated the cavern, but soon enough slices of tender, rosy, grilled meat were served on polished bone plates for their satisfaction.

While eating with gusto, the artist looked around at the assembled company, fixing the appearance of these important älfar in his mind. He would need to remember them clearly for the pictures he would make later. He noticed a few swift glances exchanged between Caphalor and Morana.
But I don't think they are a couple.

No one spoke. People were cutting their food, chewing, swallowing, cutting, chewing . . . the horn cutlery made a slightly abrasive sound on the bone plates.

After the first course was cleared away, the servants brought in a map that nearly covered the whole table. It was a map of Tark Draan, with all the topography and features so far known—and it was mostly blank.

Sinthoras stood up, a full wine cup in his left hand. “As you can see”—he gestured to the map—“we need much more information. We have already sent spies disguised as elves out into Tark Draan: they will
report to us on troop strengths and deployments, exactly where the borders run, any alliances or animosities between the various kingdoms, and, most importantly, the specific location of the elf realms.” He spoke dispassionately, yet he had fire in his eyes. “We
have
heard that some barbarians are versed in magic here. They could prove a difficulty and must be eradicated as a matter of priority. We deal with them before tackling individual rulers.”

Caphalor took over, brushing back the strands of black hair that had fallen into his face. “Assuming that word about the fall of the Stone Gateway will soon be widespread, we have to get our information very quickly.” He turned to Carmondai. “Would you be willing to record this for us
now
?”

Carmondai hesitated, but then stretched out his hand to take up the pen. “I may regret it later when I'm laughed at for being a mere secretary to the nostàroi.”

“Not a soul will ever dare to laugh at you. Your name will be cited on a level with our own and with those of these älfar here at our table,” Caphalor announced. “Well, perhaps just
under
our names.”

“Shouldn't we subject him to some sort of a test first?” objected Arviû. The archer's tone implied that he did not think much of Carmondai, or at least did not agree with his presence. His resistance also indicated that he was unwilling to share any glory. “Does he deserve the honor of carrying out our task?”

Envy.
Carmondai studied the bowman. “How do you envisage this test? Would you like a specimen of my handwriting, or shall I do you a quick sketch perhaps?” he asked amiably.

“Don't they say that the sword is mightier than the pen?” Virssagòn broke in with a smile to indicate that the suggestion he was about to make was not to be taken too seriously. “How about if I challenge him to a fight and we give him a pen to defend himself with? If he wins, we'll accept him.”

Seeing that the nostàroi were not interfering, Carmondai assumed that this banter was the actual test he was to undergo.
They want to observe my reactions.
“Arviû and I shall fight, each with a pen. I'll hold mine in my hand; he can put his on the end of an arrow,” he retorted.
“So, if you insist on a test, Arviû . . .” Carmondai made as if to get up out of his chair.

“That won't be necessary. No test is required,” Sinthoras said swiftly, as if afraid he had let things get out of hand and that this reflected badly on his own and Caphalor's positions of authority. “We have chosen you both—Morana and yourself, Carmondai—to carry out one of the most vital tasks in our campaign.”

Carmondai was relieved to hear it and immediately picked up his pen. He suppressed the question about what they intended to do with the army in Tark Draan. He glanced at Morana, who looked just as taken aback as he was. It was clear none of the others had reckoned with this turn of events, either.

His hand sped over the page, sketching and noting details: faces, armor, gestures, who was sitting where—he would need all this for the monumental work of art he had in mind.

He imagined the canvas at least ten paces long and six paces in height. This would enable him to show the hall properly.
I'll include the shattered crown of the groundling king,
he mused, working on the composition: a long table, the light falling just so, columns here and here, the nostàroi in all their glory. Their glory would have to be just that little bit more glorious than that of the other notable älfar in the picture. Deep in thought about what colors to choose for his palette and what materials he would need, he let the nostàroi's words fade to a pleasant background murmur.

“Carmondai, what are you writing?” he heard Caphalor say. “Nobody has been saying that much, but you are making pages of notes.”

Lost in his plans for the mural, it took him a moment to notice that anyone had spoken to him. His creative spirit protested at the interruption. “What was that?” He cleared his throat and reached for the wine while he tried to collect himself.

Arviû leaned forward to see what was written in the notebook. “He hasn't written anything. It's just drawings.” He gave a scornful laugh. They were obviously not destined to become true friends. “How will that help to preserve events for posterity? Aren't you supposed to write down our commanders' words? Were you going to make it all up later?”

The hostility in Arviû's voice made Carmondai uncomfortable.
What have I ever done to him?

“Carmondai, I know how easy it is for an artist to get distracted,” said Sinthoras mildly. “But you must concentrate and keep your visions under control. Write down what we are saying. Afterward there will be time for drawing and painting.”

Carmondai nodded and tried to ignore the patronizing tone.
I fear I shall have to practice this skill.
He took a sip of wine. “It won't happen again—but you must admit that the visual effect here is fascinating, overwhelming!” He was looking directly at the graceful Horgàta as he said these words, prompting a smile from Virssagòn.

“Why don't I start again?” said Sinthoras. “And this time, master of the word, please write down for the generations to come what specific tasks the nostàroi in this exact splinter of unendingness are delegating to our very best älfar.”

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), former kingdom of the fflecx,

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

summer.

“I saw the remains of the border palisades over to the left.” Arganaï rode his fire-bull along the broad path that had once led to the gateway into the kingdom of the fflecx.

There was nothing left now. A fire had entirely destroyed the defenses: The brightly colored paint used to daub the wooden posts had been highly flammable—a crucial mistake on the part of the builders—and the gnome-like former inhabitants, the alchemancers, had been wiped out.

Arganaï and his six-strong troop of young älfar cadets had been given the mission of inspecting the region in order to make a detailed map. They were also under orders to report any changes.

Arganaï could not be sure what the benàmoi had meant by “any changes” and so it was his plan to pay close attention to every minute detail of the landscape.

Jumping the blackened stumps of the palisade, they entered the barren region. However ridiculous the fflecx had looked, they had been greatly feared because of the poisons they knew how to concoct. For a long time they had been thought to be inviolable, but that had ended when most of them were killed by the mist-demon—the remainder had been finished off by Caphalor. Arganaï looked over at their placid fire-bulls. They had not been entrusted with night-mares; they would have to earn the right to ride one of those valuable beasts, but Arganaï did not mind: Worbîn, his own mount, had served him well. Even if fire-bulls were not as swift or as elegant as night-mares, they were more or less unstoppable: the long horns and their metal coverings set with blades could remove or destroy any obstacle, and their black coats, which ran to a rust color over their breasts and flanks, gave the beasts the appearance of flames and made it look as though they were born to fight.

Arganaï looked around him. There was nothing moving save a few white seeds floating about and the air shimmered with heat. He was
bored, his clothes were sweat-soaked and the armor made him hotter still. If it had been up to him he would have taken off the protective leathers, but if the benàmoi came across any of them without armor they would all be in trouble.
Why does it have to be so hot? It's like an oven.
He had his lance in his right hand; the end supported by a thong attached to his stirrup. “Spot anything unusual?”

The responses sounded decidedly unenthusiastic. Nobody was putting any effort into the search at all. Except for Tiláris. She was looking around eagerly, sniffing the air as she turned around in the saddle.

“What is it?” Arganaï took hold of his water pouch and moistened his brow. The liquid was as warm as he was, but at least it would wipe away the sweat. He was looking forward to having a bath.

“Haven't you noticed? There are no insects.”

“It'll be too hot for them,” grumbled Zirlarnor, as he sought shade by a tree, but dry leaves covered the ground around it: it was dead, there would be no shade there. “I know just how those insects feel.”

Arganaï looked around more carefully. There wasn't a fly to be seen. No beetles. Nothing.
By all the unholy gods!
“Zirlarnor, write that down. She's right. It's very unusual.” He told the others to spread out over the area. “See what insects or animals you can find.”

Now for some real research.

Every movement made the älfar sweat more and the fire-bulls struggled in the increasing heat, so they took things as easy as possible.

Even so, Arganaï soon emptied his water bottle and began to look for a stream.
I can't believe the fflecx would have stored all their drinking water in flasks.

His fire-bull snorted and twisted its head around so fast that the iron-clad horns made a ringing sound.

“Have you found something?” Arganaï muttered to his fire-bull. He gave the beast its rein and it led him through leafless shrubbery to the edge of a pond. The water was black as pitch and stank.

The young älf leader wrinkled his nose in disgust. “No good for us,” he murmured, and was about to turn his mount away when he caught sight of a creature that looked like a wolf lying on the desiccated grass. It got up and growled at him, crept over to the water, drank, choked
and trembled all over, but kept on drinking more and more of the dark liquid.

“A sotgrîn.” Its behavior was worrying.
It must be sick.

The predator's cunning black gaze fixed itself abruptly on him, then on his fire-bull. Black water dripped out of its muzzle onto the grass like ink and the creature gathered itself to attack, uttering a low, threatening growl.

“Aha, someone wants a taste of our flesh.” Arganaï tapped his mount's neck. “Watch out, Worbîn. Looks like we're not going to be bored for much longer.”

The sotgrîn launched itself at them with a roar. The fire-bull responded to its rider's gentle pressure on its flanks and lowered its horns, catching the beast with a glancing blow before tossing it violently to the ground. The sotgrîn staggered up and tried a second assault. This time Arganaï directed the bull to skewer the animal's throat with a sideways thrust: the sotgrîn was suspended in midair, yelping, gurgling and flailing wildly as dark red blood drenched its coat.

“Well done, Worbîn.” The young älf had not had to do anything, really, except to sit at his ease in the saddle and direct the fire-bull from there. He watched the death throes of the sotgrîn with curiosity as the beast finally weakened and gave up its last breath, its life juices running down the bull's horn.

The blood made Arganaï think of the brackish water in the pond. He bent forward and sniffed.

“Right,” he murmured. The creature's coat gave no indication of its having rolled in the black water, so the smell did not come from there.
We must record this at once.
He called out to Zirlarnor, “Over here! I've found something. Bring your notebook and—”

The sotgrîn opened its eyes and growled viciously, even though it was still transfixed by the horn of the fire-bull. It struggled hard to free itself, but in vain.

“By all the ungodly ones!” exclaimed Arganaï. “It was just playing dead!” He took his spear and rammed it straight into the creature's body. But the sotgrîn only fought more tenaciously than ever, burying its teeth in the wooden shaft.

“What's happening . . . ?”

With an audible
rip
, the flesh of the sotgrîn's throat tore through and the animal landed on the ground on all four paws, blood still pouring from the gaping hole in its side. Without hesitation, it launched itself for another attack.

How on earth?
Arganaï aimed his spear again and stabbed at the creature, which seemed totally unaware of its injuries. On the contrary, it snapped at the legs of the fire-bull more ferociously than ever.

The steed made a mighty leap aside to avoid the deadly teeth, but the rider himself was now in direct danger. Would nothing stop the sotgrîn? Finally Arganaï got the tip of his spear through the creature's ear and thrust hard. It emerged on the other side of the sotgrîn's head.

The sotgrîn collapsed immediately and remained motionless.

Arganaï pinned the animal to the ground with his spear before jumping down from the saddle. He drew his sword and approached cautiously, mindful a further attack might be in the offing.
I won't give you a chance to try that one again.
The fire-bull lowered its metal-clad horns in readiness.

“Hey!” Arganaï shouted. There was no response from the sotgrîn.
Better be on the safe side.
He sliced the creature's head from its body and a last surge of blood followed. “What's your secret . . . ?” he muttered to himself. Then he saw the pond.
You drank that water! Is that what let you withstand all those injuries?

“Zirlarnor!” He called. “Where are you? I've found something really exciting. The Inextinguishables will be all over us in gratitude. We'll go direct to them and not tell the benàmoi. We don't want him taking all the credit.”

Arganaï went back to the stagnant pond. The smell was worse than ever, yet there were still no flies, nor were there any other insects. There was nothing living in the water, either.

He knelt down, leaning on his sword.
What is this stuff? Is it some of the alchemancers' leftover poison?

His own reflection looked eerie: the black eyes were taking over the whole face, swallowing up the other features and leaving only a dark hole. Arganaï shuddered. Despite the intolerable summer heat, an icy
chill ran up and down his spine. He found it almost impossible to drag himself away from the image of his dark, cruel brother under the surface of the pond.

He was so distracted that he did not notice the sword he was leaning on begin to fall. His sword blade slipped down into the soft ground and he fell headfirst into the black water, clamping his lips shut at the last minute.

He sank into the oily depths, his sword lost on the bank. Flailing wildly, he tried to swim back up to the surface, but soon realized that he was actually heading farther into the pond.

It can't be that deep!
He suddenly had the impression that someone's fingers were grasping him.
No! What is happening . . . ?

He was running out of air. Getting desperate, he kicked out and thrashed with his arms, finally struggling up to the surface again.

The sunlight dazzled him, but he had never been happier to see it. He hurled himself up onto the bank of dry, rustling grasses and only then gasped in the air. Brown and black weeds clung to him in a slimy mass.

“Ye unholy gods,” he panted, rolling onto his back. Fear was making him tremble all over.
That's not just something the fflecx left behind by mistake. What terrible power is hidden in that pond?
He pulled his feet out of the black morass, afraid those claws might try to grab him again.

Raising his head he could see the pond was no more than two paces across.
I must have been imagining it! How could I have nearly drowned in something that small?

“Zirlarnor, where the blazes are you?” he yelled. “I nearly . . .” Arganaï froze. He had picked up the scent of raw meat and fresh blood. He turned, pulling his long dagger out of its sheath on his leg.

The sotgrîn lay where Arganaï had beheaded it, but his fire-bull was gone—all Arganaï could see was a pile of guts on the trampled, bloodied grass and a broken-off horn stuck in the ground.
What does all this mean?
Worbîn was an experienced battle-steed and always came off best in any fight. Nothing could have beaten him in such a short time, let alone have butchered him and carried off the carcass.
What awful curse has touched this land?

The young älf warrior got to his feet, dagger held pointing down. He staggered past the pile of intestines and followed the bloody track leading through the thicket. Red blood dripped on him from the dry foliage.

He moved silently, alert for danger. The idea of meeting a predator able to dispatch and drag off an adult fire-bull as if it were a sack of feathers did not fill him with delight. And now he did not even have his sword for protection.

The track brought him back to the place he had left his troops.

His black eyes widened as he stepped out of the bushes: the grass had been trampled down and there was so much älfar blood on the ground and splashed on the leafless trees it was as if it had been poured out from buckets.

There wasn't a sound, or a trace of his companions—apart from the blood.

His heart thumped painfully in his chest. He would not have wanted to admit it, but for the first time in his life he was experiencing true terror. It was urging him to save himself and flee, abandoning his men.
Flee . . . from what?

I can't do that! What will I tell the benàmoi when he asks what happened here?
Arganaï's thoughts were jumbled. It was something to do with the pond, surely? Was there a creature living in the water? Had it come out and killed them all?

He noticed a second track and made his way forward. There were marks everywhere he could not identify: hoof-prints and deep furrows filled with blood. And then he found pieces of älfar armor, shards of metal, and severed locks of brown hair. Despite the destruction, the air was perfectly still.

Arganaï was overcome with fear once more.

He halted, planting the toe of his raised boot behind him, instead of in front. He started to withdraw as slowly and quietly as possible so as not to attract any attention from the creature that could kill and dismember älfar and fire-bulls as if they were toys.

There's nothing I can do on my own.
He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
I have to find the benàmoi and make my report. I don't care if they think I'm a coward.

He never stopped to rest, only once to take a drink and to throw off some of his heavy leather gear.
It doesn't matter what I look like. I've just got to get back in one piece.

Sometimes he sensed he was being followed, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing and nobody to be seen. He put it down to the stress he was under.