Devastating Hate (41 page)

Carmondai nodded, a sad look in his eyes. “They wanted to punish us for our apparent refusal to follow orders—and because the Comets favored us. We lost half our fighting force in the first attack on our position. In the second we only managed to escape total annihilation by the skin of our teeth. I quit the service and abandoned military life. That was the beginning of the period when Dsôn lost so much territory to the óarcos, the barbarians, the fflecx and other scum from Ishím Voróo. Our heavy cavalry belonged to history.” He turned to Imàndaris. “Can I have some wine? The past is in need of it.”

“Don't you think it would make a good epic?” Imàndaris said, moved by what she had heard.

“No. I . . . I don't want to bring it up again. Nobody needs to know about it.”

Now I understand what made him such an excellent warrior.
Caphalor looked at Carmondai differently. Much had been rumored about this älf, but no one had guessed that in reality he had been a consummate cavalry warrior all those divisions of unendingness ago. He was also surprised to learn how great the extent of Dsôn Faïmon territory had been.
I have never bothered to find out about our own history. I really should have.
This story explained Carmondai's somewhat arrogant and disrespectful attitude when they had first met: he was understandably unimpressed by anything to do with politics and the status games—games Sinthoras was master at.
It must be so distasteful for him to hear history twisted and turned into lies . . .
“Politics serves only to satisfy the vanity of certain individuals,” Caphalor remarked soberly. “To think what the cavalry could have achieved if they had been allowed to!”

“I'll tell you this for free: the Constellations in Dsôn won't be pleased to hear the unit has been resurrected, particularly as it was me . . . I mean, particularly as it was Sinthoras who suggested it.” Carmondai hurried to correct himself and swallowed the wine Imàndaris offered him. “I hope
the Inextinguishables will bring both factions to reason.” He pointed to the new mountain. “What's going to happen with this?” he asked, deflecting any further attention.

“We have decided to keep the real story secret. We'll pretend the nostàroi caused the mountain to be built to demonstrate how superior our race is to the elves. Only the Inextinguishables will be told the truth.”

Carmondai moved to face Caphalor again. “Then I'll have to cut a whole section of my poem!” he exclaimed in horror. “It took me a whole splinter of unendingness to write all that.”

“I am sorry.” Imàndaris refilled his beaker with wine, but did not offer to change her mind on this subject.

“And what about the älfar who were present?” asked Carmondai. “You were seen raising Inàste's tear from the ground. They'll have spread the news of the miracle.”

“I know. We'll have to manage that somehow. Your verses will, we hope, reinforce our version of events, said Caphalor.”

“But . . . why?” Carmondai drank more of the wine. “It would only increase your reputation—” He looked intensely at Caphalor. “So you
don't want
the glory.” He turned to Imàndaris. “And you feel the same?”

“You are correct. That kind of miracle should be reserved for the Inextinguishables,” Caphalor admitted. “And I am afraid that, back in Dsôn, some would gladly make use of myself and the nostàroi's ‘miracle' for purposes of their own. Imàndaris and myself are warriors first and foremost; we do not wish to be put on a pedestal and admired. My friend Sinthoras would not share this view. I'm sure he'd appreciate a few statues in his honor, but that's where we differ.” He hoped he had been able to make his position clear.

“I understand. At least, I think I do.” Carmondai took up his notebook and pen. “I could describe the incident less dramatically. Would that be in order?”

“It was not anything special we did. It would have happened anyway, whichever älf laid his hand on the stone,” said Imàndaris. “It may have looked startling when Inàste's tear rose up out of nowhere, but we did not make it happen, we were just in the right place at the right time.”

“Write that the Creating Spirit showed her grace by allowing the mountain to be formed,” Caphalor suggested. “Then you won't have to change many verses of your ode, but keep Imàndaris and myself out of the song please.”

Carmondai's frown cleared. “That's fine by me.” He put down his beaker and got to his feet. “Then I'll get a move on so that Dsôn can read about the miracle.” He nodded to them both and left the room.

Imàndaris watched him through the window as he strode off. Then her eyes wandered to the mountain. “I would never have thought anything like this would happen to us on the Tark Draan campaign,” she said quietly. “What luck!”

There was an undertone to her words that concerned Caphalor. “What is worrying you?”

“I'm not worrying. On the contrary: fate has released me from a difficult task, a task my mother imposed on me.” Imàndaris lowered her eyes. “I was to do everything in my power to destroy Sinthoras. His reputation, his status, his honor, his services to our land.”

Caphalor knew exactly why the powerful älf-woman had instructed her daughter to hound Sinthoras. “Yantarai has never forgiven Sinthoras for abandoning her and going with Timanris.”

Imàndaris gave a slight nod. “She was deeply hurt. I am the only one of her children—the one she practically disowned for following a military career—who was able to fulfill her wish. But I had no idea how to go about it: Sinthoras was a hero, a nostàroi! But then he was demoted and had to face a tribunal in Dsôn. I am enormously relieved that I did not have to carry out her wish myself.” She walked over to Caphalor and placed her hand on his cheek. “And instead, I found you. My best friend, my beloved, my mentor.”

I am so delighted that she is mine.
He kissed her gently and enfolded her in his arms. They remained in this embrace for some time.

“It was not very wise to tell me what your mother demanded of you,” he said carefully. “Sinthoras is . . . a friend of mine. Admittedly, I sometimes find it difficult to like him when he overdoes the arrogance, but even if he infuriates me, I still respect him. What will you do when he comes back?”

Imàndaris looked deep into his eyes. “I . . . don't know.”

Nor do I.
Caphalor pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly he thought of the demon.
Where can he have gone?
He must find out without further delay.

The door was thrust open again; once more it was Carmondai standing on the threshold, breathing quickly as if he had been running. “Pardon me for disturbing you both, but . . . Sinthoras has been exiled!” He held a new message aloft.

“What?” Imàndaris frowned. “But I thought—”

“You'll have to stop reading letters that are intended for other people, Carmondai.”
What intrigues have they used, I wonder, to bring Sinthoras down? It won't have been the truth.
Imàndaris stood at his side to read the text.

“It's not a private letter to you or the nostàroi; it's a public announcement,” said Carmondai, defending himself. “Polòtain had him convicted of the murder of an artist: a sculptress that Polòtain had given a commission to. It's unbelievable. A carved stone figure of Robonor has deprived Sinthoras of everything he ever achieved!”

What an idiot!
Caphalor could hardly credit how misguided his friend must have been.
His arrogance always made him his own worst enemy.
He turned to Imàndaris. “It does not look as if you will be able to resign any time soon.”

Carmondai sank down onto a chair. “What a blow! From our greatest hero to a convicted murderer!” He slapped his thigh. “Samusin is playing one evil trick after another on us.”

Caphalor lowered the announcement. It would have to be read out in the conquered territories of Tark Draan, according to instructions from the Inextinguishables.
Perhaps that's really what happened, but it's also possible that Polòtain has arranged the whole thing. Who can say with certainty?
He felt sympathy for Sinthoras, even if he turned out to be guilty of the murder. They had gone through so much together, the two of them.

Caphalor would never have thought that Sinthoras, as a committed member of the Comets, could be brought down by political intrigues in Dsôn. It showed him that there could be no true friendship when politics and power were at stake.

He is alone, ordered to travel west, through Ishím Voróo. I wonder if I shall ever see him again?

Imàndaris touched him lightly on the arm. Carmondai was scribbling like one possessed, trying to incorporate the new turn of events in his epic.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), many miles south of the Gray Mountains,

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

early winter.

Famenia was safely tucked away in her hiding place. There was a smell of damp earth and frost.
Ye gods—Sitalia—let me see out this day!

Famenia had decided on the soubriquet of the Tried and Tested. No other name could explain what she had been through quite so well. And she was shortly to be tested again. This test, she had decided, would represent the final examination of her apprenticeship. Or maybe it would mean her death, if she failed.
For Jujulo's sake and the sake of my murdered friends!
She clasped her amulet tightly.

She had a new store of energy following her visit to Hiannorum where, having spoken to Hianna, they had arranged for the maga to join the älfar. This would enable her to learn more about the enemy. Famenia prayed that Sitalia might be at the enchantress's side. She had taken on the most dangerous role readily and deserved protection from the gods.

The fresh power Famenia now carried gave her great confidence, but could not displace her fear entirely.

She lay in wait in a hollow in the ground with only brown jute sacking for cover (the elves had heaped leaves and earth on top to camouflage her better) and the darkness. Famenia found the dark hard to cope with, so she carefully rehearsed the spells, formulae and hand gestures she would need. No sound reached her from outside; she could only hear her own breath and that seemed horribly loud.
I wonder how far Narósil has gotten?

The elf-riders had taken on a great responsibility in capturing Milltown and invading the caves at the same time. If one of these missions were to fail, that would put an end to their entire plan. And the townspeople would suffer an unthinkable loss: that of all their children.

It was very stuffy under the jute sacking; she stretched out one arm to lift the bag in the hope of getting more air.

Bits of soil dribbled down and some snow slipped into the hollow where she lay. The snow would work in her favor: the älfar would never notice her hiding place under its white covering.

Looking out over the layer of fine snow crystals she could see the path leading uphill to the cavern.
All quiet there.
She wriggled her way forward in the hollow to take in a view of the walls around Milltown.
No one to be seen.

Famenia began to get cold in spite of her thick clothing. She started to shiver; this was not an ideal condition to be in if she were going to issue spells. She kept switching her focus from cavern to town walls.

It had clouded over and snow was falling again. She heard owls screech in the nearby wood, and a fox barking.

Famenia's eyelids grew heavy despite her excitement.
Ye gods of Girdlegard, you—

Lights flared at the entrance to the cave.

Behind this brightness she could see thick smoke issuing from the cavern mouth. People emerged from the interior bearing torches and flanked by a squadron of mounted älfar who were driving them toward the town.

More älfar on night-mares rode up to the path, directionless and unsure of what to do. Their numbers were growing steadily, from a few hundred to a few thousand. Until they had reached perhaps 8,000.

The elves in the cave won't have been able to deal with many of the black-eyes at all.
She tried to quiet her racing heart.
I'm going to be even more vital to the operation! O ye gods!
She had been hoping only a small number of älfar would survive, but Samusin obviously had other ideas.

She twisted to look behind her, where Famenia could see light and hear armor clanking and horses snorting.

This was the second stage of the plan: Narósil and his mounted elf brigade had started out of the forest area and were taking up their positions. They had lamps attached to their shields to help them see and to get the enemy to notice them: the bait in the trap.

Famenia twisted back to face the cavern. It was not long before the älfar took up their stand on the path, ready to confront the foe. The älfar infantry remained at the back while the mounted archers pushed to the front, busying themselves with their weaponry. The unit that had driven the hostages back to the town did not reappear.

I wonder if the elf fighters have managed to take Milltown?
Famenia rubbed her hands to get her fingers working again.

The dull noise of many hooves hitting snow came from behind her: the mounted elves had begun their assault against the älfar; their horses' hooves narrowly missed her hiding place.

The plan was that—following the first clash—the elf cavalry would spread out, forcing the älfar to chase them.

Let's hope the älfar fall for the provocation.
The snow began to fall heavily, obscuring Famenia's view, but she could hear horses whinnying and the sound of screams and shouts close to where she hid. Some of the älfar arrows must have hit their targets.

Then the elf cavalry turned and galloped in her direction, as if fleeing the battlefield.

Famenia saw at once that something had gone wrong: the elves had been forced to break their attack early due to the hail of älfar arrows and they still had a good 5,000 enemies to contend with.