Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  Sinthoras approached and sketched a small bow. “I must apologize for dispensing with the normal niceties,” Sinthoras said swiftly, halting five paces back from the table. He lifted the grubby purse. “I think I have found the cause of the sickness that is carrying off so many of our people in Dsôn.”

  Bolcatòn, in his fiery red gown, was an august figure. His gray hair had been twisted into a complicated knot at the back of his head. Disgruntled at being so rudely disturbed, he addressed Sinthoras gruffly. “I thought you had come to arrest me,” he said. He removed the lid from the carafe. “Put it in here. Tell me why you think you have the solution to the crisis facing our people. Soldiers are not known for making scientific discoveries.”

  Sinthoras undid the cord on the bag and dropped the purse of threadworms into the transparent jug.

  Bolcatòn closed the lid carefully before turning the carafe this way and that and shaking it gently until some of the worms wriggled out of the cloth purse.

  “Purple phaiu su,” he stated, seemingly unsurprised. “They are quite choosy about what they eat, but we seem to be quite high on their list of delicacies.”

  Sinthoras was taken aback. “You’ve seen them before? Why didn’t anyone know what was happening in Dsôn?”

  Bolcatòn tapped on the glass with the tip of his finger, irritating the little creatures. “And exactly who are you?” he asked. Sinthoras introduced himself briefly. “Ah, I see. The disgraced nostàroi.” Bolcatòn’s tone was scornful. “Aren’t you supposed to be obliterating the elf race? But it turns out we’re the ones being wiped out. They will survive us.”

  “Those are the words of a traitor,” Sinthoras said.

  Bolcatòn was angry now, his eyes glinting. “It’s you warriors, all you Comets and Constellations, that have brought us down with your eternal rivalries, arrogance and ambitions. All these accursed political intrigues and tricks, exerting your influence on the Inextinguishables and insisting upon a senseless expansionist campaign! Who is the traitor here? You will find it is not I.” Bolcatòn paused. “The war served one purpose and one purpose only: to get rid of the demon you brought.”

  “What?” Sinthoras was at a loss. “Why should we have wanted to get rid of him? He has helped us.”

  “That’s another topic entirely. Let’s deal with this one. The purple phaiu su here represent an acute danger. I have known for a long time that they are the root cause of the apparent infection raging in Dsôn. The Inextinguishables have been fully informed.”

  “And what has been done about it? An älf just exploded on a public thoroughfare in front of me! The solution in place can’t be all that effective.”

  “So I see,” said Bolcatòn, staring at the distraught älf’s clothes. “I am acquainted with these parasites. They decimated the troops that were sent south to suppress the nations there. That was in the time of the old gods: Shmoolbin, Fadhasi and Woltonn. The worms crawl in at night through nose or mouth, make their way to the stomach and lay eggs; the hatchlings eat the flesh and the blood of the host, secreting an anesthetizing substance so that the victim is unaware of their presence. This substance eventually comes into contact with the stomach, and reacts so strongly with the acids there that the host more or less explodes. As indeed you saw. With the end of the southern gods the purple phaiu su were forgotten about.”

  How old is he if he can recall those past wars? “Is there no remedy?”

  Bolcatòn indicated his supper. “This is a food combination the phaiu su are not partial to. It gives some protection, and taking a loffran infusion helps to prevent them from entering the host. If you are already affected by the parasites the loffran encourages them to leave, but if the intestines are already too damaged, the victim will, of course, quickly leave unendingness.”

  I must let Timanris know at once! Sinthoras stared at the expert. “But surely everyone in Dsôn should be told? We should provide the loffran infusion to the whole population, put containers of it out in the streets—”

  “You would have to saturate the entire city with it if you want to eliminate the worms entirely,” Bolcatòn argued. “The bone particles the roads are made of provide the ideal habitat for the creatures. I told the Sibling Rulers this, too. But there is another problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “Loffran is not much cultivated, nor is it a respectable method of treatment—we have moved on. In Shiimal it’s not grown at all. It’s only found growing wild in the area between Wèlèron and Avaris. I’ve had it planted there, but now the dorón ashont hold that land. Half the fields have been destroyed and the others can’t be harvested because they’re within range of enemy catapults.”

  Fear fastened its grip on Sinthoras’s heart. “What can be done?” Sinthoras asked.

  Bolcatòn took a sip of the cloudy liquid. “The city needs to be burned down and built anew. The phaiu su are unlikely to flourish outside of Dsôn. They are at home in Ishím Voróo’s south, but they will bring Dsôn to a standstill. The Black Heart will cease to beat.”

  Sinthoras looked at the carafe where the worms were coiling and wriggling. They were slowly dying, exposed to the remains of the loffran infusion. It would be so easy to save Dsôn. Curse the dorón ashont! “Where do you get the loffran roots?”

  “Before the uprisings I took in a reasonable harvest. The roots were dried and ground into powder. This works just as effectively as the fresh root, but we don’t have enough to save Dsôn.” Bolcatòn wiped his mouth. “One might almost think a time of knowledge and research, not war, is upon us. Only we had the foresight to study and find answers, while the Comets and the Constellations—so busy with power and influence—were unaware of the danger.” He gave a quiet laugh and tapped his forehead. “Knowledge is power. And since I know more than you do, I am obviously more powerful. I’m sure you will agree.”

  I’m going to need this remedy for Timanris and myself. “How much can I buy from you?”

  Bolcatòn smiled patronizingly and spread his arms. “You were a nostàroi and a hero of the empire. And you have shown initiative and presence of mind in coming to me with the parasites. For this reason I am prepared to give you a small container of it; eat a spoonful once every moment of unendingness. The purple phaiu su will not come near you.” He pushed the carafe to the edge of the table. “Look.”

  The worms were all dead at the bottom of the glass jug. “So simple,” he murmured.

  “So simple, indeed.” Bolcatòn sent a servant to fetch the remedy. This was handed to Sinthoras. “May I wish you luck at your hearing. If Samusin is on your side he will have sent a few worms to your accusers and nobody will be able to pursue a case against you.”

  Not a bad idea! He bowed to the scholar and withdrew, clasping the small box—its contents more precious to him than all the gold in Tark Draan. He was not inclined to express any thanks to Bolcatòn after the insults he had been offered. But really, it was not important any longer.

  I could have some of the parasites sent to Polòtain and I’d be free of him. He won’t have heard about the effects of the loffran root. He felt his guards’ eyes on him; they were well aware that he carried the only effective treatment against the ravages of the phaiu su. As they walked back through the corridors of the academy he dipped his moistened finger into the yellow powder and licked it.

  It fizzed on his tongue and had a slightly soapy but sharp, refreshing taste. No wonder the parasites don’t like it. He went on dipping his finger and licking it until he thought he had probably got the dose right. He closed the box firmly without having offered any of its contents to his escort. Who cares if they die. I’ll be needing all of this for myself and Timanris.

  Sinthoras lost no time in leaving Arrilgûr.

  He returned to Dsôn at first light and galloped straight to the Timansor residence, but he was refused entrance. Neither Timanris nor her father could be seen. The fact that his way to Timanris was barred by watchmen bearing Polòtain’s emblem only increased his hatred of his
arch enemy.

  Having no idea what to do, he went back to his own home, where he found a summons to his midday hearing. This left him no time to collect sufficient parasites to smuggle into Polòtain’s presence.

  In spite of his lack of sleep, Sinthoras concentrated on preparing for the court appearance. The speech he was rehearsing would not have had its equal in Dsôn’s history. I shall emerge vindicated and victorious and then Timanris will come back to me.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), to the south of the Gray Mountains, enchanted land of Hiannorum,

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

  winter.

  “. . . and that is why I am leaving it up to you, Grok-Tmai the Worrier, to decide whether to surrender voluntarily with all your famuli, or whether you would prefer to be subjugated by force. Expect no mercy, if you push me to . . .” Hianna the Flawless broke off and paused, the quill pen hovering in midair over the paper. Unnoticed, ink drops ran slowly down the nib to splash onto the page.

  “Curses!”

  Obediently, the quill pen wrote the word “curses.”

  Infuriated, Hianna crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed hold of the pen, canceling the dictation spell. This new technique of air writing, as she had termed it, was still in its infancy.

  “I’ll have to work on that one,” she mumbled to herself, dipping the writing implement back in the little pot of black liquid. She tore the spoiled page in two and took a fresh sheet of paper out of a drawer, sitting down to write it all anew by hand. She formed the individual words with grace and care. As with everything she did, the calligraphy was aesthetically pleasing. It did not match the threatening content.

  Her message would be sent to and understood by every maga and magus in Girdlegard. They would know what to expect.

  Her trip to the Gray Mountains had given her wings. That massive assembly of monsters was unparalleled and the military efficacy of the combination of human warriors, beasts and älfar had already been proven. Winter would hold them back for now, but in spring Girdlegard would experience a second storm.

  Hianna composed her missives in one of the topmost rooms of the tallest tower, a place she also enjoyed working in when she was thinking up new spells. Woven tapestries in glorious hues hung on the walls, depicting landscapes and towers, the Valley of Grace and various other motifs that gave an overall impression of harmony. The room was bright and welcoming and she always found it stimulating, even when her task was less pleasant.

  Morana had accompanied her to the Gray Mountains and had introduced her to the älf Caphalor and the commander Imàndaris. There had been long talks between them all, but the maga had realized that these two high-ranking älfar did not particularly trust her. As soon as the enchanted lands have agreed to my demands, I’ll see what I can get out of these black-eyes. She blew gently on the wet ink and strewed a little sand over the page. They need me because they can’t rely on the demon’s power.

  Satisfied with her work, she folded the page, sealed up the edges and pressed her signet ring into wax. She called her best famuli and sent them out to deliver her message to the various enchanted lands.

  Now I must wait. She rose from her desk and went over to the window to look down at the Valley of Grace, which was slowly disappearing under a veil of snow. It was extremely picturesque. The white powder dusted the statues and the trees wore bright crowns; the fountains had transformed themselves into delicate glittering ice sculptures.

  Some of her young protégées were having a snowball fight, their tinkling laughter rising up to her window.

  Hianna rested her forehead on the glass as she watched the young women at play. My sweet ones, so innocent . . . But you must be ready for what is to come. It will come as a shock to you when everything changes so radically. Your carefree times will soon be over.

  Soon the intense red sun sank behind the hills at the end of the valley. Darkness was falling more swiftly than usual. The room lost its welcoming appeal.

  Hianna shivered, but she still pushed the window open to call down to the girls in the garden. “Come inside, my dears! It is cold and dark and your tea is waiting. Read through the notes about the spells I showed you and then off to bed with you all!”

  “Yes, mistress!” they chorused, hurrying in from the snow.

  The cold wind spread through Hianna’s chamber, stealing the warmth from the walls and the color from the tapestries.

  She closed the window sharply and reached for the fringed stole she had placed on the back of her chair. Her light dress was not enough in this cool air. But the shawl was not there. Hianna looked around. I’m sure I hung it on the chair? I must be getting old. Oh well, as long as I can still remember all the spells . . .

  “I did not trust you, right from the start,” said the darkness.

  An älf! Hianna smiled. “Are you trying to frighten me? That might work with small children, but it doesn’t scare me. I’m used to dealing with demons and worse. I know you älfar and I know what you are capable of.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m not trying to scare you at all.”

  The tone of voice was, at once, amiable and lethal and Hianna shuddered. Fear crept into her heart and it began to race. She broke out in a sweat. Perspiration ran down her back and gathered in beads on her brow. She slumped, moaning, half onto the chair, half onto the small table she had been writing at.

  Where is he? Thoroughly weakened, she spoke an incantation that filled the room with dazzling radiance.

  An älf she had never seen before was standing next to the cupboard. His riveted armor absorbed the shimmering light.

  As soon as she could see where to aim, she launched a fire-lance.

  The force surged out of her hand and nearly reached the älf, but he managed to spring nimbly back out of the way. The flames struck the curtains, setting them alight.

  At long last the terrifying fear released its icy hold on her heart and her mind. Hianna instantly created an iridescent protective sphere around herself. “What do you think you are doing?” she said. “We are supposed to be allies!”

  “You are better at this than that idiot Jujulo. All he could do was pull faces.” The bright light floating in the middle of the room started to flicker and fail. He was attacking it with his own power. “He tried to knock me out with a puff of wind.” The älf laughed. “At least you will give me some challenge!”

  The älf disappeared again as the light died. “Why do you want to kill me?” Hianna fed the light with the magic energy she was able to call upon everywhere in her enchanted land, but it remained weak. I wonder if he, too, is able to draw on the magic power I use. “Your people need my art. Who else could control the demon while Sinthoras remains behind in your homeland?”

  “The nostàroi commanded me to kill all the magi in Tark Draan before the offensive is launched, so that they cannot harm us,” he said, his voice mild as warm rain, as if he were her best friend and he was telling her a story. “Jujulo was the first, and then there was an enchantress near the Gray Mountains who was eliminated, too, I understand. I’m sure she’ll make a splendid example of subjugated art. And you, Hianna, are already halfway to the other world: your death has borne my name ever since Morana saved you from my sword.”

  Hianna looked around and saw him standing by her desk; he had her original rejected missive to Grok-Tmai in his hand.

  “You are able to deceive an älf like her. She is nothing more than a simple bodyguard who was keen to gain esteem by winning you over as an ally.” He tapped his own armor. “I am a virtuoso killer and I celebrate death by inventing new methods and sophisticated weapons forged by my own hand. They allow me to break the will of my most powerful enemies, and to gain access to the truth.” He dropped the torn paper. “I saw through you straightaway. You don’t tell lies very often. Or rather, you don’t tell many good ones.”

  “That’s where you are wrong!”

  “Is that so?” His lips twitched. “But what if I
have proof of your duplicity?” He placed one foot on the discarded scraps of the letter. “After I had killed that ridiculous figure Jujulo and his useless crowd of followers, I took the trouble to explore his home a little. Did you know that Jujulo wasn’t able to remember the code you have been using for your correspondence? I found his notes. Why you had to make it so complicated I really don’t know.” He smiled when he saw her shocked expression. “Ah! I see you have caught my drift?”

  Hianna sent out a second fire-lance. He dodged it elegantly again.

  The magical shield that she was using to protect herself gave a shrill sound of protest. She had not noticed the älf’s attempt to stab her with his sword, but his attack had been foiled.

  “You know nothing about demons and you never intended to join our campaign,” he said, stepping back. At that same moment her magic light went out. The stars in the night sky provided the only illumination in the tower room. Her uncanny visitor melted into the shadows. “I can read what you have written in these letters, Hianna. Your message said that you wanted to win our confidence and that you had received news from the Gray Mountains. Famenia, famula and successor to Jujulo, got to you before Morana did. She told you about us. You were only pretending to want to be on our side.”

  Hianna swallowed a curse: curses and perfection did not go well together. Jujulo, you hopeless incompetent! Why on earth did you not hide the code key? She increased the light again, but the älf had disappeared. She saw that the tower door was slightly open. Where has he gone?

  “Your death bears the name Virssagòn,” came his words from outside the room. “I’ll leave you till last, Hianna. First I’m going to see to your sweet little famuli. Their deaths, too, bear my name. I’m going to make you live with that knowledge for a while and that will be far worse for you.”

  I won’t let you! She ran after him, thrusting the door open and hurling a ball of flames along the corridor. In the orange light she saw his silhouette as he escaped out of the window. The ball of fire dissolved on contact with the stone wall, leaving a scorch mark. The next one will get you!