Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  I wonder what I’ll find. Carmondai lifted the hatch and climbed down, listening for sounds of occupation. He could hear a woman talking to a couple of men. He followed the voices and came to a door silhouetted against a bright light.

  Holding his face against the wooden panel, he found he could see through a gap and into the room on the other side. There she is!

  The young barbarian escapee was sitting at a rough table with two men in simple clothing; an elderly woman was flitting about the room in quite a state, bringing food and filling their wooden beakers with fresh wine.

  Despite the stink emanating from the men, Carmondai picked up the scent of sweet soap. The young woman must have arrived in Halmengard shortly after him and in the meantime had either washed or taken a bath.

  “And then?” asked one of the men. “Exactly what happened? Where did they come from?”

  She’s told them about us. Carmondai found it difficult to fathom why she was not yet in the office of the commander-in-chief: perhaps she needs local support to gain admittance at court. How else would a simple girl get anyone to listen to her? He licked his lips in anticipation. He was not too late.

  “How should I know where they were from?” she snapped at them. “The dwarves have been defeated, I said!”

  “I don’t believe you,” muttered the old woman, taking a seat. “They have always been there to protect us . . .”

  “I bet they’ve made a pact with the monsters,” one of the men hissed. “They’ve plundered the mountains till there’s nothing left and now that there’s no more gold and silver in their mines they’re looking to steal ours!”

  “It must be great to have as simple a mind as yours, Olfson,” groaned the other man. “Did you not hear her say the dwarves have all been killed?”

  The girl raised her arms, “Uncle Olfson, Uncle Drumann—don’t start arguing. Just take me to the governor so I—”

  “The king needs to hear about this, Famenia,” the woman said. “And then we must send word to the whole of Girdlegard. They need to send an army—”

  “Parilis!” Drumann called the woman to order. “Hold your tongue! You know Famenia was always cooking up wild stories like this when she was younger, trying to get attention.”

  Famenia leaned back in her seat, horrified. “You think I’m making this up?”

  “Well,” Drumann replied slowly. “I remember, from previous visits—”

  “Shall I repeat what the dwarves told me before they sent me to warn Girdlegard?” Famenia stood up and crossed her arms furiously. “The orcs were chasing me through the Gray Mountain tunnels and I only just managed to escape.”

  Carmondai was listening carefully outside the door. He wanted to learn what the young famula had managed to piece together.

  “Orcs!” Drumann laughed scornfully. “Do you know how rare they are here?”

  Olfson slammed his fist onto the table. “They were from the other side, you idiot! There are plenty of them over there. And trolls. And ogres and—”

  “Älfar,” muttered Parilis to herself, tugging nervously at her apron. She was obviously frightened, much to Carmondai’s satisfaction. His people’s reputation was suitably terrifying. “Ye gods! If Samusin doesn’t step in and help us we are lost!”

  “It must have been älfar.” Famenia took a deep breath. “They looked like normal elves—but in the sun their eyes were black! Black as the night and full of murderous intent.” She shuddered and hugged herself in fear. “The dwarves sent me south as soon as they could after the attack so I could get away, but the monsters started swarming into the tunnels. I had to hide until there was an opportunity to escape. I am certain the dwarves were all killed. There are no fifthlings anymore.” She gulped down her wine. “The tunnels are full of these fiendish monsters, preparing to invade us.”

  “But what are they waiting for?” objected Drumann. “If, as you say, they’ve killed off the dwarves, why haven’t they marched in? It’d be harder for them come the winter.”

  What’s your explanation for that? Carmondai would have liked to record what he could see and hear.

  Three pairs of eyes were focused on Famenia.

  “I . . . They are waiting for something. The dwarves said the creatures were being led by the älfar. The black-eyes will be deciding when to launch their campaign. And . . . the dwarves told me the monsters have a spirit with them,” she reported in a quavering voice. “A thing of mist and cloud with lights and flashes and an uncanny radiance—”

  “A spirit?” Drumann interrupted her again, laughing out loud. “A load of nonsense, your story.”

  Olfson frowned.

  “But it’s true, I say! Every single word!” The young girl had tears of frustration in her eyes. “If Magus Jujulo had not sent me to the dwarves with a message for their king we’d never have known about the danger that awaits us.” She threw up her hands in despair. “You are my uncles! You should believe me and do everything you can—”

  “To get Famenia an audience with the king!” concluded Parilis with determination. “Your uncles will do exactly that. They were both in the king’s private guard for long enough to get themselves heard by their old comrades and their superior officers.” She stroked Famenia’s blond hair. “The king will listen to you!”

  Famenia seized her hand and kissed it gratefully.

  No, I don’t think the king will ever hear you, little Famenia. Carmondai rubbed the eye he had been using to spy through the gap in the door.

  Olfson jerked upright. He had come to a decision. “Someone must ride to the Gray Mountains and take a look!”

  “No!” shrieked Famenia. “That’s too dangerous. We must send an army!”

  “She is one of Jujulo’s famuli, she will be believed!” interjected Parilis, her expression full of concern.

  “So why not go straight to Jujulo?” muttered Drumann. “A ruler would be more likely to listen to a magus rather than two ex-guardsmen nobody at court can remember.”

  “Because the älfar are following me and I need your help!” Famenia implored them. “I need the help of fighting men! And you were the nearest, and without my amulet—” She burst into tears.

  Carmondai clamped his fist around the medallion. It’s nearer than you think.

  Apart from the girl’s sobs the house was quiet. Parilis, Olfson and Drumann were staring at each other; finally Drumann dropped his eyes and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets.

  Parilis lifted her head slowly. Her face was ash-gray. “The älfar followed you here?” she whispered tonelessly. “O Vraccas and Sitalia and Samusin, stand by us!”

  “They lost my trail, I’m sure,” said Famenia softly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I took long diversions along stream-beds and no one saw me.” She put an arm around her aunt’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe, don’t worry.”

  I rather doubt that. Carmondai gave a satisfied smile. So far Famenia had only told her own family and they were not sure if they believed her. He felt a little uncertain about what was to come, but he was not reluctant to undertake it: he knew no pity. But he had to bear in mind that the men used to belong to the king’s personal bodyguard.

  It’s quite some time since I last wielded a sword in earnest. Well, there was that bunch of óarcos, sure, but they were fairly drunk. The fact that nobody in the room had any weapons was in his favor, of course. And anyway they are only barbarians.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. Let’s get some rest now and we’ll set off in the morning.” Olfson got to his feet. “I’ll warn the guards at the gate to be extra watchful in the next few nights.”

  Drumann stayed silent, but it was clear from his pursed lips that he still did not believe his niece. Olfson took his cap down from the hook on the wall and Parilis adjusted the collar of his shirt.

  She’s tidying him up for his death. Carmondai drew his short sword and used his native powers to subdue the lamps.

  Twisting wreaths of darkness floated out and insinuated themselves thr
ough the gaps around the door as he concentrated on extinguishing the lights. The barbarians would not notice these fingers of black slowly approaching to snuff out the candles flames.

  “What’s wrong . . .” Parilis looked around in alarm.

  “Must be those low-quality wicks they sold me.” Drumann searched for a spill to light from the dying embers of the stove. Suddenly all the tiny flames went out. “What the . . . ?”

  Darkness had overwhelmed the whole room.

  He heard Parilis’s sharp intake of breath. “By all the gods!” she squeaked. “My heart! It’s going so fast!”

  Carmondai put the amulet away and moved silently into the room.

  His flat-soled boots made no sound on the floorboards. “You should have believed young Famenia,” he whispered into Drumann’s ear. “The famula was telling the truth.” Carmondai slit the human’s throat and then sprang across the room to Olfson while his first victim was still falling to the ground, gurgling and spouting streams of blood. Drumann’s broad body convulsed, boot heels hammering on the wooden floor.

  “Sitalia, come to my aid!” whimpered Parilis as she sank onto her knees and crawled into a corner, her arms held up to protect her head. “It’s the älfar!”

  “Famenia, run! Run!” Olfson picked up a chair and was about to whirl it blindly above his head.

  “You stay here!” Carmondai aimed a kick and the chair back splintered, bits of wood flying to strike the young girl as she attempted to flee. She stumbled and fell. “Your death, barbarian, is called Carmondai,” announced the älf as he slew Olfson with a swift strike to the heart. “It was Famenia that brought me to you.” He dealt with Parilis as he strode past, his blade stabbing down behind the collarbone, slicing through arteries and entering the lung, so that she’d choke to death slowly on her own blood. “There’s your own niece to thank for that,” he said, as he withdrew the blade.

  Famenia was groping her way to the door. He grabbed her fair hair and pulled her to her feet.

  She screamed and struggled to get free but her flying fists were not powerful enough to have any effect on him.

  He pressed the bloody blade up against her bare throat. “Do you realize your own importance, little barbarian? If you had gotten to the king and warned him, you would have ruined—” Carmondai felt a tug at his pocket. The amulet! She’s got it . . .

  A blaze of dazzling light blinded him and the pain in his eyes made him put an arm up to shield his face. He let Famenia go and hit out, punching her. She cried out.

  There was a crackling sound and the smell of some unfamiliar gas, then a wave of heat struck him in the chest.

  He was lifted into the air and hurled backward through the closed window, shattering the heavy pane of glass and the wooden shutters as he tumbled onto the street in a series of somersaults.

  Magic . . . He was unable to move. Every inch of him hurt. Warm liquid ran out of his eye sockets and over his cheeks. It was as if his eyeballs were dissolving. It took him several attempts before he was able to struggle to his feet.

  He touched his face gingerly. My eyes are still there! But he could see nothing at all. He was terrified he had lost his sight forever. How could he remain a master of word and image if that was the case? Keep calm! I must get out of here before she can warn the guards on the gate. He stumbled along the alley.

  A strong wind plucked at his clothes before a loud bugle call sounded the alarm.

  Carmondai heard doors opening and shutters being flung back, and a buzzing of excited voices out on the street. He squashed himself into a handy niche, enveloped in his own wreaths of darkness to avoid discovery. Curse that wretched famula!

  His sight returned bit by bit. He could see fiery circles dancing in front of his eyes, but the relief he experienced was quite indescribable. Even he, in fact, was lost for words.

  The townspeople stormed past him, some heavily armed, some only with knives or a stick. They must think their settlement is facing immediate invasion.

  I’ve got to get out of Halmengard! I have to tell Caphalor that our plan has been discovered! He would not tell the nostàroi that his own attempt to stop the famula escaping had failed, otherwise it would be him bearing the brunt of Caphalor’s anger instead of, say, Armatòn.

  Jumping back up to roof height, he moved quickly back to the tavern to collect his precious saddlebags with their irreplaceable drawings and notes. He did not stop to collect his horse so that he could slip over the fortified walls and away. In a few moments he was back over the wall and on the road to the Gray Mountains.

  The weather was unhelpful. After about half a mile a powerful storm blew up and flying branches forced him off the road to find shelter.

  What this failure of his would mean for the whole campaign he could not bear to imagine. This particular chapter of the Tark Draan campaign was definitely not one to be written up.

  While he lay in a hollow in the ground, desperate for the violent storm to pass, he consoled himself with the thought that the crack team of älfar scouts had not managed to capture Famenia, either. They had not even found her in the first place. So the whole älfar invasion plan would have been foiled one way or another.

  But this personal fiasco burned in his soul like fire.

  The night had passed and the sun was rising, but the storm had hardly abated at all; the wind was still howling through the trees and raised huge dust clouds that meant vision was restricted.

  Now I understand why they’ve built their houses like little fortresses of stone. If you had a proper roof with shingles you’d be out replacing the tiles half the night with storms like this. Carmondai resolved to continue his journey, storm or no storm. Given the importance of the news, the barbarians would certainly be trying to get a messenger through to their king.

  Carmondai bent double and ran along in the ditch beside the road. He had thought the ditches extraordinarily deep the previous day when he had seen them from the saddle. Now he could see why: running along them he had considerable protection from the wind and would be safe from the flying debris.

  The wind did not die down until the afternoon.

  Carmondai returned to the road and kept up steady progress at a run. That night he stole a horse from an isolated farm and raced it across the miles until they reached the gate into the Gray Mountains. Neither he nor the horse was granted the slightest rest.

  The watch recognized him and let him in.

  With a fresh horse that Armatòn gave him, he hurried through the groundling tunnels and reached the nostàroi’s quarters five moments of unendingness after leaving Halmengard. Covered in dust and dirt and drenched in horse sweat, he barged his way into Caphalor’s private tract of rooms to find him seated at supper and alone.

  “I’ve seen her,” said Carmondai, not bothering with social niceties. “She is riding south with a troop of armed men. People told me she was going to speak to her king to warn him about a black-eyed threat.” Please don’t let him notice I’m lying through my teeth.

  Caphalor, wearing a simple black and red robe that did not in any way reflect his status as a nostàroi, calmly placed his knife and fork back on the edge of the plate and gestured to Carmondai to sit down. “You look tired and hungry.” He called the servants to bring more food. “Please, tell me what has happened.”

  And Carmondai began to tell a mixture of fact and fiction: how he had pursued the magus’s young pupil, how he had managed to locate her in Halmengard, but had not been able to approach her without running the risk of revealing himself, thereby confirming her story. He did not mention the amulet at all, nor his own miserable fighting performance. “She will be with their king very soon,” he said.

  Caphalor had been listening attentively, taking occasional sips of water. “Possibly. They will certainly be sending scouts to the Gray Mountains to check the validity of her story. However fine Durùston’s replacement groundlings are, it won’t be long before someone smells a rat and they realize the girl is telling the truth.�
�� He swirled the water slowly in his goblet and said nothing more.

  Carmondai drank and stared at the delicacies on his plate, but he was not hungry. He was too apprehensive to eat. He poured himself some more water and raised the cup to his lips.

  “How well do you know Sinthoras?” Caphalor said without warning.

  Carmondai put down his goblet. “He’s not exactly a friend of mine . . .”

  Caphalor stared at him intently. “That’s not what I meant. I want to know if you think you can get inside his head? Do you have a feel for how he moves, and the way he dresses? How he talks?”

  “I could do a passable caricature if that’s what you want. Why do you ask?”

  Caphalor leaned back in his chair, his hands on the table in front of him. “I have to give the order to move off before winter gets here and before the barbarians gather their own army, or we’ll be trapped in the groundlings’ tunnels, but the army and the demon won’t want to contemplate going into battle without both their nostàroi.”

  Carmondai understood. He felt queasy at the thought. “You’re asking me to—”

  Caphalor shook his head. “No, I’m not asking. I’m commanding. That way, if, if the deception is found out, you can tell the world later you were only following orders. The blame will be mine. But if you do your job well, nobody will ever know that Sinthoras wasn’t around right from the very beginning of the campaign.”

  Carmondai reached out for some strong red wine, filling his drinking vessel to the brim and draining it at one go. Why didn’t I stay in Dsôn?

  “You are the only one I could trust with this. It’s too important a secret,” Caphalor went on. “If I don’t march my troops into Tark Draan in the next few moments of unendingness, we endanger the whole undertaking. The enemy would have the entire winter to hatch a plan of action against us. The magi would be in on things and we’d lose any chance of putting them out of action.”

  “Nostàroi, I—”

  Caphalor leaned forward. His eyes were icy and hard. “You don’t have a choice, Carmondai: I am turning you into Sinthoras. Whether you like it or not.”