Devastating Hate (34 page)

They fanned out so as not to be all swept away if she tried another wind-gust. They approached Famenia in a wide semicircle.

I need an illusion spell to make their horses shy again. Perhaps one of the älfar will break his neck? Gods! Help me now against this evil!
With three swift hand movements and a single word, Famenia created an instant display of brightly colored lights and sent sparkling spheres whizzing through the trees accompanied by entertaining whistles and shrieks.

Even though the animals had been trained for warfare and could tolerate the sounds of clashing blades and battle noise, these fireworks were too much for them. They stopped abruptly and swerved from the path, lashing out with their hooves at the balls of fiery light; two of them crashed headlong into tree trunks and fell, crushing their riders under them.

Famenia was impressed with her own performance.
If Jujulo had known how successful his tricks are in battle he would never have shown us how to do them!

When she turned around to see where the remaining two älfar had got to, she found only their riderless steeds.

Suddenly one of the älfar lunged toward her. She ducked under his arms and dodged behind a pine tree to prepare another spell, but found herself confronted with the second älf who had sword and shield in hand. Whirling around, she fell into the clutches of the first one.

“No! Hands off, black-eyes!” She struggled and lashed out, twisting her head to escape their hold, inadvertently smashing her forehead against her opponent's helmet. Stars danced in front of her eyes and her legs started to give way. The steely grip on her arms intensified. Her flight was over.

As the dazzling shapes cleared from her field of vision, she saw a sword blade pointing at her throat. The weapon belonged to the leader of the älfar unit, half-hidden behind his shield. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice threateningly persuasive.

“Kill me, black-eyes, and I will turn into a ball of fire big enough to incinerate you and the whole town!” she declared, hoping her words sounded convincing. “I am a maga and only one of the many who will come to liberate Milltown. Hurt one hair on the heads of the townspeople and we will torture you, let you recover, and then torture you again until you lose your minds! You will see that we can be just as cruel as you!”

She was astonished to see the älf lower his sword. “This is obviously a regrettable misunderstanding,” he said courteously.

“No, it's nothing of the kind! I know that you've a whole army concealed up there in the cave. Everybody knows! Girdlegard is ready and waiting. Your secret is out. There's no point in using the humans as hostages. And spare me your polite lies!”

He gave a nod and released his hold.
That seems to have had the right effect.
She scanned her surroundings for a gap she could escape through.

The älf looked her up and down. “I think we could find a use for a maga.”

“What are you talking about? I certainly won't—”

He came up close. “We aren't black-eyes at all, if that's what you called us. We are elves from the Golden Plain.”

Famenia was confused and her thoughts were whirling. “Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Because we will help you to destroy the älfar in your cavern.” He put his sword away. “My name is Narósil. If you follow me to where my warriors are, I can explain everything that has happened. By first light at the very latest you will see the difference between Tion's scum and our kind. For we are Sitalia's children.”

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

4371
^st
division of unendingness (5199
^th
/5200
^th
solar cycle),

winter.

The long trek through Tark Draan and Ishím Voróo was nearing its end.

Throughout the journey to Dsôn, Sinthoras had hardly said a word to his companions, keeping communication to a bare minimum. Verànor would not be able to give him any more information than that already imparted back in Tark Draan and Sinthoras preferred to use these moments of unendingness to work on the arguments for his defense. He had done things in the past that had often made him unpopular, even within his own Comets faction, but he had had no involvement in Robonor's accident.

Polòtain's denunciation had played into his enemies' hands.

It all fits. I can't really blame them all for suspecting me.

Sinthoras certainly blamed Polòtain for pursuing his revenge. He must have paid out a great deal of money to get witnesses to sign statements against him.
For that I shall kill him! He has robbed me of my high rank and of my war, but it will take me half an eternity to get compensation for the loss of my reputation.

Sinthoras tried to pacify himself with the thought that he would be acquitted at the hearing. Nobody could prove a thing. His honor would be restored—of that he was convinced.

He was particularly sorry that his loyal Timanris would be bearing the brunt of malicious gossip.
She is strong and I am so proud of her.

The only good thing about his enforced return to the Black Heart was that he would be seeing his beloved once more and would be able to spend time with her. Openly.

The group moved on to the broad Bone Tower approach, a continuation of the radial arm Shiimal they had been riding through. This was where Caphalor was from. Sinthoras was surprised to see that although plenty of slaves were about, only very few älfar were to be seen. They were all holding cloths over their noses and mouths and some of them swung small smoking incense holders.

“What's wrong?” Sinthoras asked Verànor. “Are our people not allowed to be out in the open?”

“I expect the sickness has spread,” was the response. “Didn't I tell you?”

“What sickness?”

“It started with the arrival of the dorón ashont. People think they have something to do with it. An älf who escaped from them in Ishím Voróo came here to warn us and was the first to get sick and die. After him, it
was the guards who had shared his quarters in barracks.” Verànor tied a scarf around the lower half of his face. “They must have infected him with something and deliberately allowed him to come back to Dsôn.”

That will be their revenge for the poisoned wine the Inextinguishables sent them. Instead of poison they have sent a plague. What a perfidious response!
“If the enemy is currently stationed in the old fflecx territory, could it be possible that the älf who returned had been in contact with their toxic potions?”

Verànor thought for a while. “Possibly, but I think it's more likely that this is a cunning enemy plan. I don't think it's coincidence.” They had arrived in front of Sinthoras's house. “You can stay here, but we'll be posting guards as long as there are charges against you.”

Sinthoras was aware that he had been allowed the privilege of house arrest because of his services to the state. A suspect accused of a major crime would normally be placed in the cells.

“I shall let the Inextinguishables know that you have arrived. The date of your hearing can then be set.”

“Tomorrow,” said Sinthoras firmly. “I must get back to my army. There's a war on. This whole procedure is a sheer waste of precious time. You saw how the troops revere me.” He felt it right to stress his status and his military importance to Verànor. His rank had been the second highest in the land and he wanted it back.
Polòtain is going to wish he had never started this!

Verànor nodded. “I'll tell them. You should use a mask, too. Otherwise you'll be taking the sickness back to Tark Draan and infecting our troops.” He turned his night-mare and headed for the Tower.

A good idea.
Sinthoras entered his house, accompanied by the guards.

He was surprised to see the door opened by his slave Wirian and not by his steward Umaïnor. Wirian bowed in greeting, keeping her face veiled because she was not particularly pretty. Compared with Raleeha, most human females were disappointing.

“Master! It is so good you have come back!” she exclaimed, heartily relieved. He assumed she had not meant the comment maliciously. Her slim-fitting gray dress outlined her slim barbarian figure. She had obviously lost weight.

“Where is Umaïnor?”

“He is dead, sire. This terrible sickness killed him.” She broke down in tears as Sinthoras dismounted. Together they walked in; the älfar guarding him kept three paces behind.

Sinthoras heard nothing at all. There was no chatter, no clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen, in fact no signs of anyone else in the vicinity. “Where is everybody?”

“The household . . . Umaïnor died first. We found him in the hallway, his body burst open and his guts exploded. It was like he had been hollowed out.” Wirian shuddered. “It took me a long time to clean everything up, I can tell you.”

He shouted at her: “Where are the slaves?”

“Master, it's not my fault!” she whimpered. “Don't be angry with me! I'm the last person you should be angry with. I stayed here and have always been loyal, but the others all ran away. They went one night. They slipped out of Dsôn and went to join the Army of the Ownerless.”

What powers are conspiring against me?
“And what in the name of all infamy is the Army of the Ownerless?” he barked, marching off to his private quarters. “Bring an herbal infusion and come to my rooms at once. I need to know everything that has been happening.” He dismissed her and went to the relaxation room, slamming the tall double doors behind him.
Has absolutely everyone gone crazy?

Sinthoras threw himself down on the upholstered couch and looked out of the long windows: the gray grass lawn and dark red and black foliage was subdued and beautiful. But what caught his eye were the weeds disfiguring the white bone-gravel paths. Nobody had been tending the garden.

Slaves running off! In the old Dsôn that would have been unthinkable!

The dark blue of the room calmed him and he gazed on the unframed works gracing the walls. His own.
When did I last stand at my easel? Perhaps it might ease my troubled soul.

He became aware how much he had missed painting. His style was not the same as Carmondai's; Sinthoras preferred to give his hand free range over the canvas with his mind selecting colors at random; his work was always powerful.

His thoughts were circling around the imminent hearing when Wirian returned with a tray; she poured out some of the drink for him and knelt down on the floor. “You asked about the Army of the Ownerless?”

“Yes.” Sinthoras gave an almost imperceptible smile. “And don't be afraid. You won't be punished.”

The slave was relieved to hear it. “After the steward died, no one knew what would happen. I wanted to ask your relatives to appoint someone, but the others were against that. They said they would leave Dsôn. They said it was going to be easy because of the sickness. They wanted to join the Army of the Ownerless. They locked me in the cellar. By time I had managed to get free they had gone.”

“The Army?” he urged, taking the cup.

“Yes, yes, of course, the Army! It's made up of escaped slaves and a handful of soldiers from the vassal nations. They have a camp near—”

“A
camp
? We're letting a bunch of runaways set up camp in Dsôn Faïmon?” Sinthoras stared at Wirian in astonishment, trying to read her veiled features. “How can that be? A single one of our rawest recruits would suffice to deal with a hundred barbarians!”

Wirian was equally surprised at his reaction, but remained silent.

“What?” he snapped.

“You . . . haven't heard? The dorón ashont have thrown up a barricade at one of the island fortresses and are holding it against all älfar attempts to oust them.” Wirian fussed with positioning the teapot correctly over the heated coals in the metal container. “Some of the dorón ashont have got to the sections around Wèlèron, Avaris and Ocizûr, inciting the slaves to rebel. Many of your people have been killed, master. Whole settlements have been razed to the ground and the Towers that Walk have led this Army of the Ownerless into countless battles. They seem to be invincible.”

“How . . . ?” Sinthoras did not know what to say. “This cannot be true,” he said. “I've been riding through Tark Draan conquering one kingdom after another and back home neither Constellations nor Comets can deal with a few scum insurgents?”
The dorón ashont are cunning. First they weaken us, then they set the barbarians and vassal nations against us.
He placed a hand to his brow. “By Samusin! I've arrived just in time!
Before I go back to our troops I must save Dsôn Faïmon. Tomorrow, straight after the hearing.”

Sinthoras noticed that Wirian was trembling with fear.

“Go and make me something to eat,” he said, more kindly. “Then go over to Timanris—”

“Master . . . I-I . . .” Shaking violently, she stammered, “I can't do that. For the same reason that I could not consult her about a new steward.”

He felt sick and there was an ice-cold knot in his stomach. “What's happened to her?” he whispered. “The plague? In the name of infamy, if she—”

“No, master, it is not the sickness.”

Sinthoras felt his heart might burst. “Tell me! Out with it, you wretched thing! What's happened to Timanris?”

“She will have nothing to do with you. She has renounced you, master.” Wirian bowed her head humbly. “Please do not punish me!”

Sinthoras was transfixed as if struck by a bolt of lightning. He was numb. He had no heartbeat. He was as if dead. He had even ceased to breathe. He forced himself to inhale. “What?” he whispered incredulously, although his instincts told him to bellow.

“She has publicly renounced you and has severed all connection,” Wirian expanded, head down. “She had it proclaimed in the market square. The reason given was your involvement in the death of her previous partner, Robonor.”

Sinthoras heard the words, but could not take them in. The room started to turn, the pictures on the walls merging into one long smear.

This is the cruelest trick Polòtain could have played. He has deprived me of what is dearest to me. I . . .
He was unable to think, so badly affected was he by the news.
Timanris! She must say it herself to my face! I can't simply . . .

“NO!” He leaped to his feet, hurling his cup aside, and ran from the room; the guards followed hard on his heels as he headed out through the empty alleyways and streets of the capital city.

Sinthoras was so distraught that it did not occur to him to place a handkerchief over his mouth and nose for protection.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the southwest of the Gray Mountains, the area formerly known as the Golden Plain,

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

winter.

Caphalor appeared, fully armored, in front of a house that had been newly constructed inside the crater they had discovered by the Golden Plain. He surveyed the progress with satisfaction.

The fortifications were taking shape and would soon reach a stage capable of holding off an enemy onslaught. Buildings had been swiftly erected to house those älfar troops still in the town. They, like him, refused to accept any accommodation the barbarians (let alone elves) had used. These quarters would serve for the snow-rich winter months.

The huge crater held a strange fascination for him.

Behind him, the new nostàroi left the new accommodation and joined him. “It's all looking good,” said Imàndaris. “We hadn't seen all the details in the dark.”

“The barracks won't be in use for very long,” he replied. “But the craftspeople will be delighted to hear their work praised by their nostàroi.” Caphalor let his gaze wander over the labors of stonemasons and carpenters, busy trying to make the älfar warriors feel at home in Tark Draan.

On top of the pleasant change their efforts had brought about, there was also the comforting atmosphere exuded by the location itself. The crater's aura recalled the mood in Dsôn Faïmon.

But the atmosphere here is more intense, more authentic somehow.
He squatted down and dug his fingers into the soft earth.
It's as if the place were glad to welcome us here; there's a special energy.

“I can feel it, too,” said Imàndaris from behind him, her tone formal, almost ceremonial. “This is indeed an extraordinary spot and it deserves to be blessed with a city that will outshine Dsôn.”

Caphalor smiled to himself and stood back up, pressing the crumbs of soil between his fingers as if to preserve the essence. “It's unlikely the Inextinguishables will commission anything like that.”

He watched her closely. The early morning light illuminated her features and darkened her eyes. Caphalor's interest in her was growing. As
the daughter of a renowned artist, her career path had been quite different; she had moved in the realm of art, but had walked a path of death. She was extremely unusual.