Devastating Hate (52 page)

“The Inextinguishables have decided that our people will no longer worship the gods of infamy. They let us down and do not deserve our respect. There are to be no further prayers, offerings or hymns.” The nostàroi was upset about this. She pushed back her bright red hair. “It won't be long, Carmondai, before we shall have two new deities for whom we'll have to make a new throne of bones.”

Now Carmondai had to sit down. He plunked himself down on a pile of drawings. Dsôn Faïmon was in its death throes and the Infamous Ones were no longer to be called upon. The new Dsôn Balsur had feet of clay. Carmondai stared at Imàndaris without seeing her.
Here was material enough for a further five epics.

“Will you help me?” he heard her ask.

He was confused. Having actively helped to bring about the conquest of Tark Draan, he had refrained from giving himself any of the credit in the heroic record of events that he was composing, because no one was allowed to know that he had impersonated Sinthoras.
And what if I were granted fame as the founder of the new Dsôn? Why should I decline an opportunity to go down in history and legend? Is this perhaps my overdue reward for my brave deeds? But the responsibility is huge.
He wasn't happy about the extra work, but the possibilities of it intrigued him.

“As soon as the plague is over and the blockade is lifted, the remaining älfar will make their way here, full of hope,” he said pensively, getting to his feet. “Nostàroi, I swear that you and I shall build a Dsôn that outshines the old city in glory and splendor. It will be a symbol of our new beginning as a people—a sign of the new era and of our resurrection after the hardest of fate's blows!”

Imàndaris stood up and embraced him. “I thank you with all my heart! We shall construct a town with majestic squares and imposing streets, winding lanes and magnificent buildings. I shall appoint you
to the highest rank at my disposal so that you shall have every authority to issue commands—”

“—to everyone apart from yourself and Caphalor. Oh, and to the Inextinguishables, of course,” he broke in. “I shall leave my epic for now. There will be time enough for that in the future, when we have our completed city at our feet. I shall get Durùston to advise me. I'll commission the finest works of art from him to elevate the status of Dsôn Balsur even more.” He held out his hand, palm upward. “Show me the plans, Imàndaris. I'll get straight to work.”

“I don't have them with me. I wasn't sure you would accept.” She went to the door. “Oh, have you heard?”

“About what?” He saw from her expression that it was good news that she was about to give.

“Arviû is back. He arrived with the last supply wagons sent from Dsôn Faïmon.”

“He must have had protection from the gods of—” He broke off, not knowing what deities he was supposed to thank for Arviû's safe passage. He scratched his head.
Damn. Another rewrite.

“He had the protection of fate,” she supplied. “Our one-time master archer is training to be a warrior.”

“He is blind!”

“He's been learning skills from the guards in the Tower of Bones. He told me that he won't appear in public until he has managed to overcome ten opponents in combat. That's ten älfar opponents.” Imàndaris let herself out. “If you see how he moves now, you won't believe that he can't see. Another division of unendingness and he'll meet his own challenge. He is determined to do whatever he can to bring about the end of the elves.”

From sharp-sighted bowman to instrument of lethal revenge
. Imàndaris grinned as she saw Carmondai make a couple of notes. “Arviû. He'll have a tale to tell, I warrant. No, I'll tell it for him. He's an älf bold enough to stand up to fate.” He waved her off. “Go and get the plans, Nostàroi. We've got a city to build!”

Imàndaris looked as if she had something else she wanted to say. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Anyone who can write a story can keep a secret,” he answered with a wink.

Her face glowed, revealing her relief and her delight. “The Inextinguishables have decided to reinstate Caphalor to high office. He has been appointed my deputy!” On that note, she left.

But is it what he wants?
Carmondai tidied his room and sorted the papers roughly before putting them aside to make space for studying the Sibling Rulers' plans. It was no routine task he had been given. He was looking forward to it.

Taking what he had produced so far for his poem, together with all the notes and sketches he had made, he wrapped the written pages carefully in waxed paper to protect them from damp.
At least things have more or less come right for Caphalor. The Inextinguishables appreciate his talents and they know that the troops respect him. Dsôn Balsur will need an experienced general like him.
His notes totaled eight parcels, and he placed them in a wooden chest for safety.
I wish Sinthoras well. May he make a new future.

Imàndaris brought him the plans and they spent the whole of the evening examining them. They were both sure they could turn this vague list of specifications into an overall design for an impressive, robust and deadly älfar realm in Tark Draan.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Stone Gate Path in the Gray Mountains,

4372
^nd
division of unendingness (5200
^th
solar cycle),

late winter.

“You down there!” Caphalor shouted down from his tower to a group of älfar trying to approach the gate. They carried their possessions on their backs, their mantels were torn and shabby and their breeches torn.
It's hard, but it's important not to take pity on them.
“Stay away from here! In the name of Nagsor and Nagsar Inàste, I command you to retreat and wait in the camp for new arrivals with all the others. If you come a step nearer I shall be forced to have you shot.”

They looked up and then deliberated among themselves.

“Take aim,” Caphalor ordered his archers to either side on the battlements. They raised their long-distance weapons and made ready.

Seeing this, the älfar turned tail and ran.

Caphalor hated driving off the refugees, but it he had to protect the others at Dsôn Balsur: those that were healthy had to stay that way. He thought aloud. “The sentries on the Ishím Voróo road must have been asleep. They should have stopped them.”

“Perhaps the sentries are already dead?” suggested one of the archers, lowering his bow. “The parasites do not respect rank or position.”

“That would be a problem. We need people to keep discipline down there.” Caphalor looked over at the barricades his soldiers had put up. There were catapults loaded with arrows and spears lined up along the whole path; he was standing to the right of the tower.

You could not do anything without the necessary discipline.

He had arranged for the refugees to be sorted into a hierarchy of camps. The new arrivals had to wait at the far end. Only after fifty moments of unendingness, when it was clear that they were not infected with parasites, would they be allowed into the next compound. The second interim camp was carefully observed; if the älfar here showed no signs of sickness after a further ten moments of unendingness, they could move on to the third encampment. That was where the healthy älfar would wait for Caphalor to let them pass through.

Soldiers in the camps—the same troops who had been sent back to fight the dorón ashont—controlled the system and enforced discipline. Caphalor knew a few of them from the Tark Draan campaign. They would ride up to the barricade every morning to report to him and to hear his orders. They carried out his commands at arm's length.

Aïsolon, my good friend. Protect those who, like yourself, have chosen to remain loyal to Dsôn Faïmon.
He often thought of his comrade who was carrying out that essential task.

His mind would travel constantly to his own family, not knowing what had become of his children: they could still be alive, or they might have succumbed to the acid . . . The cruel uncertainty was anguish to his soul.

And he thought about Sinthoras, traveling through Ishím Voróo.
He could give people courage, hope and a vision of a new life. That's if he's still among the living.

Caphalor looked at the tents pitched close to the gateway path. Walls had been hastily erected to separate the three camps; ditches one pace wide filled with acid from Dsôn acted as a barrier against crawling parasites.

The plague was not easy to control. They were still losing many victims and there were frequent new infections. All in all there were around 4,000 älfar refugees housed in shameful conditions just outside the Stone Gateway.

What utter misery.
Caphalor clenched his fist in anger—but there was no one he could call to account for the fate that had struck his people. The dorón ashont had died in the acid just as thousands of älfar had done. Samusin had intervened. But he still had these dark thoughts . . .

He did not know how he would react if a friend of his or one of his children came pleading at the gate to be admitted. He could only hope the situation would never occur.

An älf marked by a long, hard ride appeared at his side and handed him a leather wallet bearing the seal of the Inextinguishables. “A message for you, Caphalor. For your eyes only.”

Despite the presence of the archers, he opened the seal and took out the missive.

Scanning its content, he did, however, move several paces to the side for privacy. These were lines that should never be seen by a third party.

The imperial seal had been stamped in the wax beneath the text.

Anyone would think they wanted to reappoint me as nostàroi. I would not accept.
Caphalor looked over the battlements and past the camps toward Ishím Voróo. Memories of his previous journey flashed through his mind: he and Sinthoras had been sent away to win the mist-demon as an ally.

The memories were not pleasant ones.

There was no hint now of where the demon might be.
He has abandoned our cause.

Caphalor had an inkling that this was why the Sibling Rulers were recalling Sinthoras; they would be desperate to call on the demon's powers given the starkly reduced numbers of surviving älfar. Only with his help would the Tark Draan campaign be successful.

They aren't even considering the plague, or that I might pick up the infection.
Caphalor looked at the camp.
I'll go this very night.

He quickly left the tower to find and brief his deputy. Then he would write a note for Imàndaris. She had to be told what his mission was and why he was leaving for the wilderness once more.

In the middle of the night, certain that most of the älfar in the camps would be asleep, Caphalor rode through a gap in the barrier. Thick snow was falling.

His night-mare, Sardaî, was loaded up only with the most indispensable items for the journey. Comfort was not a concern, but speed was. He made sure he was not showing any kind of insignia and took care to cover his armor with a wide mantle. Nobody would know who was heading quickly north that night—and nobody would suspect that an älf would ride from the safety of Tark Draan through a tent village that still harbored the plague.

Sardaî easily jumped the acid-filled ditches and raced past the guards' braziers. No one stopped him, no one called out. Those waiting in the camps were not interested in the solitary rider—not, that is, until he was confronted by a veiled figure at the far end of the new arrivals' compound.

Parasite land.
“Out of my way!” barked Caphalor, swerving aside.

The älf mirrored his movement almost as if begging to be ridden down.

Caphalor had no mercy and set his night-mare to charge straight on.

At the last moment the figure darted aside.

What the blazes was that in aid of?
He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the cloaked älf had snatched one of his saddlebags.
A thief!
Caphalor reined Sardaî in and turned.
I'm not letting you get away with that.

He raced back. It was in that saddlebag that he had stored the vital imperial letter: the letter describing his mission and allowing him to pass—and the masked älf was holding it. He seemed to have recognized its significance and was rushing through the camp toward the gate, waving the paper in the air and shouting.