Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  Hianna darted off—and was brought to a halt by stabbing pains in first one and then the other foot. Sharp metal objects had pierced the thin leather soles of her shoes.

  She looked down. The älf had strewn metal barbs over the stone floor and with every step she tried to take she drove more of them into her feet.

  The . . . She groaned and sat down in a window alcove, calling out for her maids. She wanted to send them to warn her female students about the älf while she used her healing powers to enable her to walk again.

  Nobody came in answer to her call, so she opened the window and cried out in warning to the other towers. “Watch out, everyone, there is an enemy here in the valley! Stay exactly where you are until I tell you it is safe. Lock your doors and remember the spells I have taught you all!” Hianna turned to extract the wire barbs from the flesh of her feet, but suddenly she realized she could no longer move her legs.

  The paralysis spread with lightning speed, affecting her entire body

  She fell forward, helpless. Her face landed in the midst of more sharp metal. The sharp edges cut through her thin clothing and barbs pierced the unprotected flesh of her face, puncturing nose and cheeks.

  Hianna tried to scream, but could only produce a pitiful whimper. Without the ability to speak or move, she could not weave any magic to help. Virssagòn set a trap for me. He knew perfectly well that I would chase after him.

  The maids did not come.

  The triangular metal barbs were swept to one side with a clinking sound and a pair of black boots came into her field of vision.

  “You thought you were so clever, didn’t you? You thought you could trick us,” Virssagòn said, like a parent gently disciplining a child. “But now the great maga has run into trouble of her own making.” He knelt at her side and gently turned her in order to study her face. “I have never seen a victim’s face lacerated like this. Mostly, they will just tread on the barbs, not lie face down in them,” he said maliciously. “I shall wait here with you for your death, Hianna the Flawless—the death that already bears my name.”

  Someone shouted from the corridor. “Get away from our mistress!”

  No! Did they not hear my warning? Hianna could only whine in distress, although her whole being was urging her to leap to her feet to defend her students. She was plunged into despair at the thought that she would not be able to help them at all.

  Swift steps approached her and the älf.

  “If you listen very carefully,” he whispered, drawing his sword slowly, “you can work out what it is I’m doing to your girls. Mind you don’t die till I’ve finished!” He jumped to his feet and leaped over her.

  No! Ye gods, no! Protect them! Protect my dear ones! Hianna wished that she were unconscious. That would have been preferable to lying there, helpless, on the cold floor and having to witness the death of her protégées.

  This wish was not granted.

  Instead she found herself forced to listen to the death-throes and dying screams of her young pupils. She had to hear the sound made by a blade as it tore through fabric, skin, flesh and bone.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), many miles to the south of the Gray Mountains,

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

  early winter.

  “I should like to offer thanks to fate for bringing you to us,” said Famenia. “You could kill 5,000 älfar in battle. I couldn’t.”

  “Killing the älfar in the cavern would be initial compensation for the destruction of the Golden Plain.” Narósil was outwardly calm, but his eyes betrayed how fervently he wished to see his enemies dead.

  Famenia nodded.

  It had been quite a day. She had waited patiently with the elf for sun-up so that she would be able to look him in the eyes and determine what kind of creature he was. She was inordinately relieved to note that the whites of his eyes did not turn black in the revealing light of the sun. The same held for the rest of his unit. Upon ascertaining this, she had fetched little Ossandra down from her perch.

  And now they were all gathered in the leader’s sparsely furnished tent. Narósil had told her he was an elf noble, related to the princess and that his unit was the monarch’s guard of honor.

  The elves had not taken it amiss when Famenia insisted on waiting until dawn before speaking to them. They told her what had happened in the Golden Plain and how the älfar had destroyed Princess Veïnsa’s army. Tears rose in Famenia’s eyes: this did not merely signify the demise of a noble and admirable race—it showed that evil had taken hold.

  Narósil and his warriors had broken free of the ring of death in order to mobilize the elves in other lands and beg for their support in trying to fight back. But wherever they went, they came across älfar troops or their allies. They had been forced to go south to avoid them. The noose around Lesinteïl and landur was being pulled ever tighter. Famenia gathered that they had a long-established antipathy toward the elf land of Gwandalur. They did not want to go in that direction. Narósil had thus decided to join with the army of humans in Hiannorum and to march against the enemy in the spring.

  But beforehand we must liberate Milltown, or those men and women will be the next victims. Famenia had told the elves about Horgàta and her army. “We need a really clever plan to bring down the älfar without endangering the lives of the vulnerable.” She looked at the elf leader. “There is only limited space in the caves. There would not be enough room for your cavalry,” she said on a note of caution.

  Narósil rapped himself on the breastplate. “We are just as capable as the älfar of moving in complete silence and we can fight on foot if necessary. Can you give me any more specific details?” He took out some paper and drew a map according to what Ossandra could tell him about Milltown, its immediate surroundings and its cave system. Famenia added anything she could, but Ossandra supplied the most useful information: there were two further cave entrances, invisible from the outside, one of them on the very top of the hill.

  “I don’t suppose the townspeople will have told the älfar about it,” Narósil said pensively. “I suggest I send in a hundred of my people with firebrands to create an acrid smoke screen. The älfar will be forced to seek the open air if they don’t want to suffocate.” He indicated the free area around the town. “What is the terrain like here? Is it soft going, or will we be able to let the horses run fast over this part?”

  Ossandra shrugged. “The meadows are normally quite wet.”

  “So the ground will be difficult. Not ideal for cavalry.” Narósil studied his map.

  “Can’t we lure them away?” suggested Famenia after some thought.

  “I don’t think so. The älfar are anything but stupid, as we’ve all learned to our cost. I’d be surprised if they failed to suspect an ambush.” Narósil’s slim gem-adorned finger tapped the paper plan, indicating the meadows. “We’ll have to proceed through here. We won’t be able to make our normal swift progress, but we should still have enough impetus to do away with half of their troops. Our latest battle showed that they don’t have much in the way of defense against heavy cavalry.” He looked worried; he was not completely convinced by his strategy.

  “What about the älfar already in Milltown itself?” Famenia put her arm around Ossandra’s shoulders. The young girl was obviously very concerned about her friends and family.

  As Narósil placed his hands together, the jewels in his rings sparkled. “A hundred of my people will go into the cavern to look after the children, the sick and the elderly. A further 200 will go into Milltown and engage the enemy there. After that we’ll have our archers up on the city walls shooting as the älfar come streaming out of the caves. That should be enough to confuse them until our cavalry can attack. We should cause a good few casualties among the enemy.”

  Famenia approved of the plan, even though she was no tactician herself. “The city will be eternally grateful to you.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Narósil stroked Ossandra’s head,
a smile on his comely features. “We may be of different races, but we are united in our war against evil. It is a matter of honor for us to help others. And it is what the goddess wishes us to do.” He looked at Famenia. “I have explained what I and my warriors can do. What about yourself?”

  “Me?”

  “You are a maga, aren’t you? I recall you threatened to annihilate us with a fireball. So I’m assuming you’ll have some spells at your disposal. That should give us a major advantage over the älfar.” His blue gaze rested on her. “Or is there a problem?”

  How can I tell him without making myself look a fool? “You must forgive me, but . . . I was lying to scare you. I thought I could get you to leave me alone. My master Jujulo, who taught me everything I know, was always more for entertaining rather than warfare.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that, no, I can’t hurl flames and no, I can’t magic flesh off bones. The spells I have are mostly to make people laugh, but I’m quite good at healing.” She stared at the floor, feeling totally useless. She was a good messenger, of course, but her magic skills, compared with those of a Hianna the Flawless or Grok-Tmai, were childish in the extreme.

  Narósil laughed. “I was quite impressed, though, back there in the forest. That wind you conjured up made things quite awkward for us. That kind of thing should be more than adequate to create a bit of mayhem among our adversaries.” He placed his slender hand on her sleeve. “Famenia, please, we do need your help. They outnumber us five to one.”

  I’d hate to be held responsible if we fail.

  “I’m sure we can bring their numbers down to 2,000 before they realize what’s happening. But then things will be tough for us. If we were fighting orcs or humans”—he said, looking apologetic—“those odds would not be a problem, but the älfar are dangerous foes.”

  In the face of the urgent pleas from Narósil, she racked her brain to think how she might contribute, but she was struggling to meet this challenge.

  She knew she could not escape her destiny; she was preordained to play a leading role in the fortunes of Girdlegard.

  For your sake, Jujulo, I’ll do whatever I can to set Milltown free. “I’m in, Narósil.” She held out her hand.

  The elf took the proffered hand and shook it firmly.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  And thus I sat with Caphalor, now deprived of his office.

  And I asked: Tell me, how is it with you?

  And he answered: Never better!

  And, surprised, I spoke: How is this possible? Did you not lose everything: honor, fame, office and authority? How is it that you can be of such good cheer?

  And Caphalor smiled and responded; I just am. My soul was touched in a place I had thought lost. I lived for this once and it was torn from my grasp.

  On suffering that loss I wanted to leave unendingness.

  But now that I am truly alive, awoken from the stubborn rigidity of heart, I shall fight with renewed vigor.

  For my own sake.

  For the sake of unendingness.

  For her sake.

  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/4372nd divisions of unendingness (5199th /5200th solar cycles),

  winter.

  “We have heard your report. Do you still insist you were not in Dsôn on the night Robonor was killed by the falling masonry?” Polòtain was sitting directly in front, staring him in the face, fury and hatred in his eyes.

  Sinthoras faced him down. He had dressed carefully in ceremonial armor to make the best possible impression in court, to remind everyone of his previous high position and recall his glorious past, which was surely to become his glorious present once more. May the phaiu su enjoy consuming you, Polòtain! “I already told the court that I spent the night in my studio with Timanris. Do you need to know all of the detail, old älf?”

  This was met with quiet laughter.

  The hearing was being held in the western part of Dsôn, in the foyer of the temple of Samusin. In this way, the god would keep his eye on proceedings and ensure a fair and fitting ruling.

  As well as the god, around forty representatives of the Comets and Constellations were present, acting as the jury and making decisions on behalf of the Inextinguishables, who preferred not to deal with the minutiae on difficult cases—such as those concerning high-ranking officials.

  The jury belonged to the Dsôn elite—their extravagant formal attire emphasized their importance. Polòtain was the sole exception, having chosen a simple white garment that stood out in stark contrast to the black that Sinthoras wore.

  Comets and Constellations faced each other in rows four paces apart. A paper-strewn table and two chairs, where Polòtain and Sinthoras were sitting, stood between these opposing benches. The priests were in the temple itself. Otherwise, no one else was allowed in and the guards on the doors guaranteed the hearing would not be disturbed.

  Sinthoras had planned to make as many personal attacks on Polòtain as possible in order to irritate and unsettle him, but he knew he was not at his best after the all-night ride and he was finding it difficult to keep his thoughts in order. “Say what you like—I am not responsible for the death of your favorite nephew. Perhaps we need to accept that a loose stone was nothing more than that: a loose stone.” He pressed down on the armrests of his chair as if about to stand. “The committee will be wanting to send me back to Tark Draan where my task is of greater importance.” Audacity may yet save the day.

  “Of course the committee will send you away, it is only a matter of deciding where to send you to: Phondrasôn, perhaps? Exile would be a suitable punishment.” Polòtain pointed at him accusingly. “Keep your seat, disgraced nostàroi! You owe this chamber due respect! Gathered here are the noblest of our race and you are acting as if they had merely come to judge you innocent.” He turned his head and let his gaze sweep over the company. “But we are meeting on a more urgent matter: we need the truth!”

  “The truth people tell each other is only one version of events. Interrogate ten witnesses and you will hear ten different versions. This does not change the fact that on the night in question I did not leave my home.” Sinthoras sat down. “But you are right: I should not have tried to rush the committee in their findings.” He took a deep breath. There was an overwhelming fragrance of incense in the hall. Light from the high windows illuminated statues portraying Samusin in his role as protector of justice. These symbolic representations showed the god either as a strong wind disturbing foliage and sending up high waves, or as a set of scales. Fairness: equality before the law. Sinthoras found the environment reassuring. It will all end well.

  His accuser lowered his outstretched arm and then picked up and held out a rolled parchment. “I have here a witness deposition made under oath stating that Sinthoras commanded the guard Falòran—the man walking behind Robonor—to hold his shield in such a way that Robonor’s leg would be cut, preventing him from stepping out of the path of the falling masonry.”

  If I had known about that witness I would have dealt with him. “There can be no such witness because I had nothing to do with the whole thing! This must be a lie!”

  Polòtain savored his triumph. “He could not bear his guilt any longer, so he confessed his part in it to me. He told me he had been acting on your orders.”

  “It’s a lie!” Sinthoras repeated. He had wanted to say something different, but his mind was numbed and dull with tiredness and he had been taken by surprise. You can’t let them get away with this! Pull yourself together. Contest this claim. “No such orders were ever given.”

  “No such? Perhaps you gave other orders?” snarled Polòtain.

  “No!” O god of justice! He was hoping wildly that a statue might speak out in his defense, but the Samusins were silent.

  Polòtain unrolled the paper. “I, Falòran, confess that I wa
s paid by Sinthoras to remain close to Robonor at all times to enable a certain incident to become a fatal accident.” Having read out the confession he raised his eyes and addressed the members of the chamber committee. “I can have Falòran appear before you. He will give his statement under oath once more.”

  He must have blackmailed the guard. Or he’ll have bribed him. Sinthoras shook his head. “This is utter nonsense—and badly conceived nonsense, at that—all thought up by a very old älf whose mind has been eaten up by grief,” he said scornfully. It was time for the counterattack. “I can produce witnesses for my part that show that Polòtain is responsible for introducing the sickness that has befallen the capital. It is easy to buy tongues willing to bear false witness.” I’m finding it really hard to organize my thoughts.

  The members of the committee whispered to each other and then insults started flying between the benches occupied by the opposing factions.

  Sinthoras presumed things were going in his favor. “Dismiss the case—not proven!,” “Unsubstantiated accusations!” and “The witness was paid!” were among the phrases being mumbled.

  “Before you acquit him,” Polòtain called out into the hubbub, “I want you to listen to a further deed that he committed. This is why he has been summoned back to Dsôn. This time he won’t be able to deny the truth.” He whirled around to face Sinthoras and pointed at him accusingly. “He murdered Itáni!”

  All fell quiet. It was as if Samusin himself had called for silence. All eyes were on accuser and accused.

  Sinthoras laughed. “Old fool! So I have the gift of being in two places at the same time? In Tark Draan and here in Dsôn?” Even he noted that his laughter sounded false and shrill. “I was with the troops fighting the elves. I had no time at all to think about some would-be artist you had commissioned to produce scandalous nonsense and erect it opposite my house!”

  The room was still. The committee waited with bated breath.