Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  Odeborn waved a servant over and got him to refill his goblet. The wine slopped over the rim leaving fresh stains on the bright blue robe he was wearing. The stains were not without company. “Well. You look a bit . . . dark for a Being of Light,” he said, sipping his drink noisily. “Maybe you are a moon-elf? One that only goes out at night?”

  “Your Majesty has a quick mind,” she smiled. “I am indeed different.” Morana saw fear in the faces of the nobles. Not fear of her, but fear of Odeborn. “And I am about to talk about something that may well affect us for longer than one human life span. Could we include the king’s successor in our discussions?”

  “Successor?” roared Odeborn. “If there is anyone eyeing my throne I’ll have his guts for garters!”

  “You don’t have a son or a near relative, who could—”

  “Our king had most of his family executed immediately on seizing power,” a woman said quietly—one of those who had rolled her eyes at the king’s previous remarks. “He has never married.”

  Odeborn emptied his goblet in one long draft and threw it at the woman. “Stop telling the elf my secrets or you’ll be joining my family, you daughter of a whore!” he snarled.

  That’s why he needs so many guards. Whoever kills him will rule. Morana indicated the armed men at the entrance and dotted around the hall. “Perhaps I can help you secure your throne? I offer a pact between the Kingdom of Ido and ourselves.”

  “Pact?” he growled. “What do I need with a pact?”

  “The elves of Lesinteïl and landur are planning to extend their borders at the expense of the human realms—and that includes your own.” Morana was aware of the surprise on the barbarians’ faces. “We can work together to prevent this.” It’s not going to be easy to talk them around.

  “Are you from Gwandalur or the Golden Plain?” asked the man at the end of the line on the right. Morana’s attention sharpened on him—he looked quite smart for a barbarian. He might be harder to convince.

  “And how do you know about these plans?” the woman asked. “Have you any proof?”

  Odeborn ignored these questions and addressed Morana. “They’re so rude, aren’t they, these advisers of mine?” He gestured down the line. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves to our guest?”

  One by one they gave Morana their names.

  “Now that you know who they are, you may as well understand that these are the few of my relatives I allowed to live.” He sank back in his throne with a malicious smile and called the servant over for more wine. “I hope you can give me a good explanation for your claims.”

  “I belong to a tribe that has remained separate from the other elf races because we know how untrustworthy they are. For a long time we stayed in the south, hidden away from all eyes, watching them. They have been deceiving humans for as long as the two races have lived next to each other.”

  “They have been deceiving us?” This was Starowig, a well-groomed noble with the neat beard. “If that is the case, perhaps you can tell us what their true intentions are?”

  “They want the entire territory. They plan to conquer the human realms and assassinate the wizards. Then, when everything is under their control and they have divided the land among themselves, they’ll eliminate the dwarves. They pretend to be creatures of light, but they are creatures of pure greed!

  “You have little time: their numbers were once insufficient to risk declaring war, but now they are ready. Haven’t you heard the news from Quarrystone?”

  Odeborn’s jowls quivered as he shook his head, but the woman sitting on his left, Sagridia, nodded. She looked more frightened than any of the others. “Some traders told me the town had been wiped out by the elves. Just like that. Only one little girl survived. She’s got a mark on her forehead that protected her, they said. I thought it was all a fabrication.”

  “It is the beginning of their war,” Morana announced gravely. Convincing them may be easier than I thought, but I’m going to have to do something about the power structure here. There are more than enough candidates for the succession.

  “So what?” said Odeborn, not bothering to suppress a belch. “Let them come! I’ll pull their pointy ears off and shove them up their asses!” He laughed. “My army is loyal to me and I have many men. I don’t need a pact with you.”

  Judging from the expressions, he was the only one of this opinion.

  “I understand.” Morana looked at the nobles. Let’s try something different. “Which of you is wealthiest and the most popular figure with the people, apart from your wise ruler here?”

  There was a little muttering among them and eyes flitted anxiously hither and thither, before most settled on Starowig.

  “So be it.” As quick as lightning, Morana pulled out the Sun and hurled the weapon with all her strength at the king.

  The steel blades struck him in the middle of his fat chest. The impact was so violent that it tipped him back and overturned his throne. His carafe smashed on the floor and red wine and blood flowed together.

  No one moved. Not even the guards.

  Morana put her hand to her belt and nodded to Starowig. “Congratulations, King. How do you feel about forming a pact with us? Or do you think I should name your successor?” She grasped the steel Moon in her right hand.

  Starowig, not over the shock, but manifestly pleased with this turn of events, got to his feet and said loudly: “You have your alliance.”

  CHAPTER X

  And that is how the nostàroi achieved their victory over the elves of the Golden Plain.

  Using cunning and courage, they overwhelmed their mortal enemies, led their own troops from battle to battle and took the first of the elf realms at the speed of the wind.

  By the onset of winter the Inextinguishables’ army controlled whole swathes of land in the north of Tark Draan.

  Plans were underway to conquer Gwandalur, landur and Lesinteïl.

  Gwandalur was part of the Golden Plain, a minor adjunct, small but dangerous.

  The elves there served a white dragon worshipped as the incarnation of their goddess. The nostàroi knew that they would have to use subterfuge if they were going to defeat this creature. The next strike was to be on Gwandalur before the dragon had a chance to attack the älfar.

  But the alliance was disintegrating.

  However hard the älfar tried to keep the allies together, the different groups acted independently. This, together with the bad weather, brought the cleverly planned strategy for the advance to a halt.

  It was some time before a certain absence was noticed.

  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),

  early autumn.

  Polòtain was giving a dinner for all those whose opinions the Inextinguishables would listen to—his own voice was not sufficient. I want to bring a whole chorus together.

  He scrutinized the room where twenty of the most influential älfar left in Dsôn would soon be gathering: male and female, Comets and Constellations alike. This was to be a unique event where political adversaries would come together around the same table. And they will come because I have invited them. Everything must be perfect.

  The guests soon began arriving and by the appointed time all of them were there, seated at the table with Polòtain at the head, visible to all. None was younger than thirty divisions of unendingness.

  “Before I open the proceedings I’d like to thank you all for attending,” he said, standing to address the company. “It is a great privilege to have members of opposing political camps coming here in peace. I must ask for your tolerance and understanding regarding tonight’s revelations: there are some painful truths that have to be confronted. But it is for the good of our nation that I bring up these uncomfortable issues. Terrible events have been set in motion and we must info
rm the Inextinguishables of them before they become imminent. If we fail to do this there will no longer be any Comets, nor Constellations.” He sat down again and ordered the wine to be served. That should have aroused their curiosity . . .

  “In the past, when you were more in the public eye, you were always feared by your Comet colleagues, Polòtain,” said Ratáris with a smile, breaking the tense silence. “But now you are a burned-out star rising again, and you want to take over both factions? I wonder if it will work?” She looked at the other dinner guests. “We, the Constellations, are eager to hear your plans, but we are . . . suspicious of them.”

  Nobody from the Comets wanted to speak. They preferred to bide their time.

  “There are several hot topics being discussed in the streets and squares of Dsôn,” Polòtain began. “We have the situation in Tark Draan, for example. My sources—”

  “What sources are these?” Ratáris interrupted.

  “Benàmoi of the smaller älfar units who are unhappy at how the war is going,” Polòtain continued. The easier he made it for them to understand, the readier they would be to believe the truth. His truth, at any rate. “The nostàroi have sent small units out to accompany the barbarians, óarcos, trolls and ogres so that the älfar can keep the allies in order. That’s how it was supposed to work. But there is a snag.” He grabbed the edge of the cloth in both hands and yanked it off the table, leaving plates and cutlery undisturbed, to reveal a huge map of Tark Draan painted on the wooden table. Polòtain took up the pointer at his side. Nothing had been left to chance this evening. “I have no wish to detract from the victories Caphalor and Sinthoras have won. These are excellent warriors and they have led our troops to a glorious triumph in the Golden Plain. But the way they are deploying the allies, or the scum of Ishím Voróo, as I refer to them privately,” (at this point there was polite laughter on both sides of the table), “puts them at the end of a chain—and the chain is no longer holding. Greed is responsible for the disintegration of the alliance. They all want the land they were promised, and of course, they are squabbling over who gets the best bits. My sources”—he went on, looking particularly at Ratáris—“say that the barbarians are starting to quarrel among themselves and the Kraggash óarcos have put the half-giants’ noses out of joint. Our warriors often have to face the resistance from Tark Draan on their own. As soon as the local kings have got over their initial shock and have their armies sorted, it will be even more difficult for our soldiers.”

  “You are saying that the nostàroi are not up to the task?” Demenion, of the Comets faction, said. “Their mission was to conquer Tark Draan for the Inextinguishables and establish a vassal state—but judging by what you have said, it looks as though they are awarding the whole place to the scum!”

  “I thought this campaign was about destroying the elves?” objected Ratáris. “And that’s surely what the nostàroi are working toward. Or have I misunderstood?”

  “It is wrong to send our soldiers to Tark Draan in the first place,” said Landaròn, who was sitting next to her. “So far our catapults on the island fortresses have managed to hold back the dorón ashont. But where are our forces if, by some incredible mischance, the Towers that Walk effect entry into Dsôn Faïmon? We’re left with nothing but raw recruits led by a handful of veterans, plus the slaves we could use in an emergency. But can we depend on their loyalty? What if our serfs turn against us and join forces with the dorón ashont? At first sight it may seem that we are secure enough, but if you dig a little deeper you have to admit that the älfar empire has never been in such danger.” He shook his head and stared over at the Comets. “Say what you like, this campaign has proved a disastrous mistake.”

  Polòtain was delighted that the discussion had gone this way. “Even if I belong to the expansionist camp, I find myself agreeing with you, Landaròn,” he said, for all to hear.

  Every head turned toward him in astonishment.

  He addressed the other älfar. “The nostàroi talked the Inextinguishables into using tactics that were created in arrogance and over-confidence. Sinthoras and Caphalor were working on the assumption that they had made the borders of Ishím Voróo secure as they had enticed all of our enemies to Tark Draan under the guise of new alliances. It was thought the nostàroi would be returning in triumph by now, with the whole of Tark Draan conquered. Not least because of the demon, who they said would be able to break any last pockets of resistance.” Polòtain crossed his arms. “The reality is that they have hardly made a start. Winter will soon call a halt to the whole campaign and Dsôn Faïmon will be left weak and vulnerable. Look toward the northwest where the dorón ashont are up against our borders!” He raised his right forefinger. “I am not saying the war was a mistake—but the way they are going about it will bring disaster. The nostàroi have got things wrong and they’ve put us in grave danger.” He took a mouthful of wine and waited for his guests’ reactions.

  They were all looking at the map with worried expressions.

  Polòtain was convinced that the views of the two opposing factions were starting to draw closer. That is exactly what I wanted to happen.

  “I cannot fathom where you are going with your speech,” said Ratáris after a while. “Do you intend the Comets to support the Constellations in trying to get the troops recalled?”

  There was lively dissent, but the reaction was less extreme than it would have been before Polòtain’s presentation.

  “I am merely pointing out that we find ourselves in a situation where our differences pale into insignificance.” Polòtain placed his wine cup back on the table. “I have a proposition to put to you all. I think it is a reasonable suggestion that will be acceptable to both factions and at the end of the day it will be Dsôn Faïmon that profits from it—and that means us, of course. If you hear me out we can discuss it together.”

  Ratáris signed to him to go ahead. “You have us on tenterhooks.”

  “In order to protect our people we need to recall a large contingent of our soldiers from Tark Draan; some will remain to hold their position over the winter and keep the allies under control. Our soldiers will defeat the dorón ashont upon their return and make their way back to the front with the coming of spring, when they can join the attack on Tark Draan once more. But, in my opinion, the war should be under different management. Caphalor and Sinthoras have botched their opportunity through their conceit, and it will not serve us in the future. My way, the interests of both the Comets and the Constellations are served and each faction can see one of their principal demands being met.” Polòtain’s mouth was dry, not only from speaking, but also from the tension. Polòtain took a few deep breaths. He had done his part. Now to see how convincing he had been.

  The Comets and the Constellations put their heads together.

  A servant came up to him and whispered, “Master, you have a visitor. It is Timanris.”

  “Timansor’s daughter?” The traitor bitch?

  “Yes, master.”

  “What does she want?”

  “She did not say. She wants to speak to you urgently. Straightaway, she said.”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “Master, she looked very upset. It must be important.”

  Polòtain was unsure. Does she want me to forgive her for betraying Robonor? Or might it be something I can turn to my advantage? I can’t miss that. He got up. “Please continue your discussion, my dear friends and valued opponents. I shall be back shortly.”

  The servant took him to a small reception room where Timanris was waiting. She was wringing her hands nervously. When she saw him approach she stood up.

  “My dear,” he said kindly. He concealed his distaste behind a mask of feigned courtesy. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” He indicated to the servants that they should leave the room. “Have you come to apologize for sleeping with my great-nephew’s murderer?”

  Timanris stared at him, then dropped her gaze. “I—” she said quietly, taking a deep
breath. “I heard that you have called all the leading members of society together. Everyone in Dsôn knows you are attacking Sinthoras because you believe he is responsible for Robonor’s death. But you are wrong! I wanted to ask you not to—”

  Polòtain snorted, then gave a cold laugh. “I have proof, Timanris! And I have a witness whose evidence clearly incriminates Sinthoras. He has sworn on oath that Sinthoras was implicated in a conspiracy targeting Robonor!”

  “But that is impossible!” she cried. “He swore to me.”

  “You know what people say about Sinthoras and how he came to gain his present office!” he cried. “He is a Comet and his trail could not burn more destructively. If there is something he wants or something that gives him some advantage, he will have it, come what may.” He stepped toward her. “He saw you, he wanted you. That sealed my great-nephew’s fate. His death had to happen. Such a convenient accident, wasn’t it? But I’m not giving up and I’m not going to be lulled, like you, into believing his protestations of innocence.”

  Polòtain realized that it was sheer desperation that had forced her to come and plead her lover’s case. You know that I am plotting to bring him down and it’s driving you crazy. He looked at her face and wanted to strike her. “He is also responsible for the death of the outstanding artist Itáni—”

  “No!” she exclaimed, seeming relieved to be able to contribute something toward clearing Sinthoras’s name. “No! That’s utterly impossible! He spent the night with me!”

  Polòtain froze. “What did you just say?”

  Timanris winced. “Nothing. Only that he spent the night with his troops in—” She swallowed hard and her face went as white as samarkit dye. “Tark Draan. He—was in Tark—Tark Draan . . .”

  Polòtain stepped forward again so he and she were close enough to touch. “The nostàroi has been in Dsôn?” he hissed, holding her gaze. “By all the infamous ones, Sinthoras was here! Here in Dsôn!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “Betrayed by his partner after she’d betrayed my Robonor for him. O god of the winds and of justice, Samusin, that is priceless!”