Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  CHAPTER VII

  Before winter closed in, the nostàroi gave the order that the army had been so fervently longing to hear.

  And a river of annihilation poured out over Tark Draan!

  The whole company of consolidated ugliness—óarcos, trolls and ogres—rolled off in front to strike fear into the hearts of the humans; the barbarian tribes from Ishím Voróo followed. Our own troops marched among the others and were everywhere at once, enforcing discipline. Small units of our warriors were disguised as elves and tricked their way into fortresses and towns, making their conquest in less than half a night.

  And so they ran and so they rode, toward the south, the east and the west.

  No settlement, no citadel could withstand their advance, for our scouts had done their work well and had warned the commanders about potential hazards. There were no secrets kept from the nostàroi, who stormed through Tark Draan conquering the land mile by mile in the name of the Inextinguishables.

  The main älfar army arrived at the border of the realm where the Golden Plain elves lived.

  Revenge was close at hand!

  Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan

  composed by Carmondai, master of word and image

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

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

  late summer.

  Sinthoras got out of bed, leaving Timanris—who had fallen asleep following their extended bout of lovemaking—to rest. He had an appointment that was going to be far less romantic.

  He dressed in the lobby and put on an inconspicuous mantle over his simple suit of armor, taking care that the hood hid his features. Nobody must recognize me.

  Passing Timansor’s collection of weapons, he noted a heavy club that must have come from somewhere in Ishím Voróo. It had probably once been wielded in the calloused hand of a stinking green-skinned óarco.

  Exactly what I need. He took it out of the glass cabinet and concealed it under the fabric of his mantle before leaving the house and heading through the nocturnal streets. He crossed the marketplace and stopped at the statue of Robonor.

  The two watchmen looked at him, waiting nonchalantly as he approached.

  “Excuse me, could you tell me where I would find the artist that made this? The statue is so . . .”

  “The artist?” repeated the guard on the right. The two watchmen exchanged glances. As they were doing so, Sinthoras made his move. He kicked one of them on the chin, putting him out of action, and smashed the other one on the helmet with his club, rendering him unconscious.

  “You should have let me finish: the statue, I was going to say, is so humiliating, insulting and slanderous that I cannot put up with it any longer.”

  He shattered the onyx marble statue with violent blows, leaving only the plinth behind. Taking the piece of red gold that had been used to represent the wound, he hurried off.

  He felt enormous relief. That was probably not very sensible, but it needed to be done.

  Of course, he already knew who had made the statue.

  After a brisk walk he was standing in front of the artist’s house and pounding hard on the door until it was opened by a veiled slave.

  “I am not expected, but that is of no importance.” Before the slave could do anything, Sinthoras knocked her to the ground, slamming the door behind him. “Mistress!” he called, in what he wanted to sound like the slave’s voice. “You have a visitor!”

  “Who, by all the infamous ones, has the nerve to disturb me at this time of night?” Itáni shouted furiously from upstairs. “Get rid of them!”

  “I will.” So that is where you are! It was all Sinthoras needed to know. He glided up the steps and followed the sound of a hammer tapping the end of a chisel. He stopped in front of her studio, took a deep breath and stormed in without warning.

  Itáni swirled around with her sculptor’s tools in her hands. She had nearly finished a basalt statue of an älf whose face Sinthoras did not recognize. The stone she was sculpting from was supported by a wooden frame to prevent it from toppling. “What are you doing?” she yelled at him. “Who are you?”

  Sinthoras brought out the metal wound that had originally been part of Robonor’s statue and threw it at Itáni’s feet. “That’s all that’s left of your statue,” he said icily, throwing back his hood. “I am impressed by your work, but not by the lies that you are spreading. You have put your gift in the service of the wrong cause.”

  Itáni lowered her arms and stared at him. Fine black dust covered the light beige robe she wore. She wiped her face. “The nostàroi in person. What an honor that you should come and confess your ill-advised deed in this way. You can’t be very bright if you’ve let yourself be carried away like that.”

  “Polòtain gave you the commission; it’s down to him that your statue no longer exists.”

  She nodded. “That’s what he thought, too. That’s why he commissioned four further copies.” She laughed at him. “Oh, you should see your face, Nostàroi! You had no idea whom you have made an enemy out of. I assume you have heard the rumors?”

  Sinthoras experienced a surge of anger that brought jagged black lines of fury to his face. “Then it’s high time to show those friends how dangerous it is to antagonize me,” he said in a threatening whisper, lifting the club. “No one will connect me with this weapon, and no one knows that I have come back to Dsôn,” he murmured as his hatred intensified—an emotion that really should have had Polòtain as its target. I’ll deal with him next. Death by means of a crude óarco cudgel will be suitably shaming for him.

  Itáni’s confidence drained away. She edged away. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said quietly, feeling for the whistle that hung around her neck.

  “Oh yes, I dare.” Sinthoras leaped forward, swinging the club straight at the middle of her body.

  She sidestepped and the club crashed against the basalt, breaking off part of the statue she had been working on. She shrieked as if the damage had been to her.

  Sinthoras whirled around and struck again, missing her once more. She stumbled over the block of basalt and lost her balance, falling onto the dusty floor.

  The next second Sinthoras was standing over her, his right foot on her throat to keep her from screaming. “Let your art decide. Your own creation shall be your judge.” With his left hand he swept the wooden supports aside, grabbed the statue and pushed with all his might. “I wonder if your art will let you live?”

  The block of stone started to tilt and then overbalanced. Just before the statue hit the ground, Sinthoras pulled his foot away from her throat. The stone crashed onto the upper body of the sculptress, breaking her ribs and crushing the inner organs.

  Itáni uttered a stifled cry as a gush of blood spurted out of her mouth.

  “So, Polòtain’s friends have not helped you much, have they?” he mocked. “Your death bears the name Sinthoras. And it comes because you accepted Polòtain’s commission.” He twirled the sharp-edged metal wound from Robonor’s statue in his hand, then jabbed it into her neck. Her eyes clouded over and her gaze broke. Her soul departed into endingness. That’s what you get for your trouble.

  Shocked voices and hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. Her household servants were nearing the studio. They would know immediately that a murder had been committed. The weapon sticking out of Itáni’s throat was a clear enough message.

  No other artist will dare work for Polòtain after this. In order that there should not be the slightest doubt about how serious he was, he shattered her beautiful face with a swift blow from his club.

  Then he put his hood up over his blond hair and escaped through the window.

  He hurried through the streets with a broad grin on his face. His hate had transformed itself into a state of euphoria: Robonor’s statue and its creator had both been eliminated.

  But Sinthoras had not completed his revenge.

  When he reached Polòtain�
�s house he slowed down and concealed himself in a niche in the wall, watching the two guards at the gate.

  His immediate instinct had been to smash Polòtain’s brain with his cudgel, but he was having second thoughts. That would cause too much commotion. The two armed älfar on the gate would not be the only ones he would have to contend with. For the sake of his own safety he would have to act more cautiously than he had done with Itáni. I will content myself with something symbolic. A really clear sign.

  Sinthoras slipped out of the niche and ran along in the shadow, club raised for action as he neared the watchmen.

  His attack took the two dozing älfar completely by surprise. The first clout felled one of the guards and left him groaning on the ground.

  The second älfar raised his shield to ward off a blow, but the impact smashed the iron-reinforced wood and the guard crumpled to the floor. A kick to the skull quickly saw him lose consciousness.

  That was easy. Polòtain’s people are useless. Using the spikes on the cudgel he scratched the word SLANDERER into the gate and under it he wrote YOU WILL GET YOUR JUST DESERTS, AS EVERY LIAR WILL.

  I want Polòtain quaking in his boots, terrified for his life. He hurled the bloody club, which still had Itáni’s hair and bits of Robonor’s statue sticking to it, over the wall and heard it land in the courtyard.

  He sped away, making tracks for Timansor’s family home.

  Satisfied with his achievements, he stole into the house by the back door, took off his mantle and went up to Timanris’s chamber.

  To his surprise he saw light under the door; she must have woken up.

  Curses! A thousand thoughts burst into his mind; foremost was the fear that his recent exploits would be discovered.

  After running his fingers through his blond hair to tousle it, he undressed and entered the bedroom, acting astonished to see her sitting up. “Oh! I’m sorry! Did I wake you when I got up?” he said, pretending to be sleepy.

  “No. A messenger from Tark Draan woke me,” she replied, looking at him inquisitively. “It was some time ago, but the messenger couldn’t find you anywhere in the house.” The question this posed lay unasked in the air, along with suspicion and silent reproach.

  A messenger from Tark Draan? What could that be about? Sinthoras put on a cheerful expression. “I was hungry and I went to the kitchen in search of something sweet. I looked in the pantry as well.” He grinned and came over to give her a kiss. “He and I must have kept missing each other. The curse of being able to move silently.” He stroked her hair. “Do I still taste of the honey gingernuts?”

  Timanris’s scowl softened. She put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. “No,” she said, disappointedly. “You might have brought me some.”

  That was close. “So, who is this messenger?”

  “Caphalor sent him.” Timanris released him. “Go and find him. He’s in the servants’ kitchen. He looked pretty impatient.”

  There’s something afoot in the Gray Mountains, thought Sinthoras, beginning to be very worried. He left the room swiftly, dressed quickly and hurried downstairs where he found the messenger at table.

  “Nostàroi! Greetings,” he said, getting to his feet. “I have a letter for you that Caphalor handed to me himself.” He drew out a leather wallet wrapped in waxed paper. “I was told to give it to you personally, not to anyone else.”

  Sinthoras sat down, broke open the seal and unfolded the letter, recognizing his friend’s handwriting on the parchment. He read the summons to return immediately to the Gray Mountains. The demon, it said, and the rest of the allies, were becoming restless. Winter was fast approaching and the window for a successful sortie into Tark Draan was closing fast. The letter ended: “Give Timanris my best regards, but she is to send you on your way without delay. After a quarter of a division of unendingness you can return triumphant, and she can greet you as a victorious hero in Dsôn.”

  I’ve only just got here and I’ll have to leave! Sinthoras turned to the messenger. “What else did Caphalor say?”

  “He said not to let you write an answer—I have to bring you back with me, Nostàroi.”

  Sinthoras passed the leather folder back, but tossed the parchment into the stove where it quickly caught fire and disintegrated. “Tell Caphalor that something important came up. I’ve got to stay and sort it out,” he commanded. “It concerns something that could endanger our official function and our reputations as nostàroi. I am sure he will understand that I cannot return to the army yet, though I shall be as quick as I can.” He got to his feet. “Finish your meal and get some rest. You should leave at dawn. But remember that you have not seen me here in Dsôn if anyone asks. Nobody except Caphalor is allowed to know.”

  “Of course, Nostàroi,” the älf responded, bowing. “I swear it on my life.”

  Sinthoras left the kitchen and returned to Timanris. He explained quickly that Caphalor had summoned him back to the Gray Mountains.

  “Shouldn’t you go at once? The longer you stay here the more likely it is that someone will recognize you,” she urged. “If that happened it would put you in a bad light.”

  Sinthoras was deep in thought. He had wanted to see Polòtain’s reaction and he was eager to spend more time with his beloved. But she is right. If anyone should recognize me, I’m bound to be suspected of Itáni’s murder. He kissed Timanris fondly on the neck. “How wise you are. I’ll leave tomorrow night. That way I can spend the whole day with you.” He patted the bed. “Right here.”

  Timanris laughed.

  These delightful plans were not to be.

  First thing in the morning a servant came in to wake them both and ask them to meet with Timansor.

  That does not sound good.

  They came down to find Timansor furiously angry—black lines crisscrossing his face in a series of scars. He was wearing a wide white mantle with black embroidery over his night attire. He had clearly not lost not a splinter of unendingness in summoning them. “How dare you abuse our trust in this way?” he snarled at Sinthoras.

  “Father, he wanted to see me—” Timanris began. But her father silenced her with a look.

  “There was only one reason for his coming to Dsôn,” he bellowed, pointing at Sinthoras. “To get his revenge for the humiliation that Polòtain has subjected him to. He needed somewhere safe to stay where he would not be betrayed, so he came crawling to you! He killed Itáni! Beat her to death as if she were scum. Then he went to Polòtain’s house and scrawled a warning on the gate so everyone would know what to expect if they speak up against him!”

  “But, Father, he was with me all night,” Timanris said indignantly. “What makes you think it was him?”

  Sinthoras closed his eyes for the space of two heartbeats and upbraided himself for his hot temper. I should have left it at just destroying the statue.

  Timansor glared at Sinthoras. “Because she was killed with a club whose description matches one that I had in my collection.”

  “There are plenty of other clubs that look just the same, surely,” Timanris tried again to placate her father.

  “ONE I HAD, do you hear?” he thundered at his daughter. She jumped back in shock. “When I heard about the deed I checked my weapons collection. That one is missing. Somebody took it and went out hunting. And don’t tell me it was one of the slaves! Don’t you dare lie to your own father just because your heart tells you to.”

  I can’t watch her suffer like this. Sinthoras opened his mouth to reply.

  “No, Father, I took it,” said Timanris, visibly shaking. “It needed cleaning. Some of the iron had gone rusty so I took it a smith in Ocizûr. He’s supposed to be very good.”

  Timansor stared at his daughter, taken aback. “You?”

  “It was meant to be a surprise, Father.” Timanris cast her eyes down. “It won’t be one now, but I can’t listen to you accuse the älf I love of this.”

  Sinthoras covered his own astonishment with a smile. “So I’m not the murder s
uspect anymore, I gather?”

  It was obvious that Timansor was working hard to take this all in. He did not want to say his daughter was lying, but he certainly could not believe her. “Send a slave to collect it before this smith manages to mislay it,” he said quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. Without looking at either of them he left the room.

  The door had hardly closed behind her father when Timanris whirled around to face Sinthoras. “You made me lie!” she whispered. “And you lied to me! You were never in the kitchen like you said. What my father says is true!”

  “I . . .” Sinthoras did not know what to say. He felt bad for deceiving Timanris while she had defended him so courageously.

  “I knew we didn’t have any more honey gingernuts. We ran out yesterday,” she said frostily. “If you’re going to be dishonest, then at least check your facts so your lies sound credible.” She flashed her eyes. “Not another word! Get on your night-mare and get out of Dsôn! It’s best if we don’t see each other for a time.” Timanris walked past him and shook off his hand when he tried to catch her arm. “No, Sinthoras. Go off and do your heroic deeds in Tark Draan. You haven’t managed any here.” She left the room, closing the door quietly to show her deep disappointment.

  I did the right thing, Sinthoras thought defiantly. It may not have been a heroic deed, but it was essential to stop the slander.

  As she had advised him, he prepared for his departure and left the premises as soon as he could. He did not travel with Caphalor’s messenger. He did not want company.

  He rode through Dsôn at a comfortable speed and could not resist crossing the marketplace.

  The scattered debris of the statue was being collected up by a group of slaves.

  What are they doing? Curiosity made him ride over, his face hidden in a scarf, to speak to them. “Oh, I see. The Polòtain family has some sad work to do. What’s to happen to the damaged hero?”

  “The statue’s to stay where it is,” said one of the slaves, without looking at him directly. “We have been told to put all the broken pieces up on the plinth and to leave them there.”