Devastating Hate

by Markus Heitz

  Those älfar who felt entitled to interfere in the concerns of our state have been proven wrong. They deceived themselves, all the älfar in Dsôn Faïmon and us.

  A new age has begun: an age of challenges; an age for a new generation of älfar and a new empire carrying the name Dsôn Balsur.

  And just as we need you—a far-sighted warrior with an excellent mind, a cool head and an unrelenting fist—we also require älfar with the gifts and temperament of Sinthoras.

  Exile seemed the only option, but we have come to realize that his banishment was based on false statements from corrupt witnesses. Polòtain died in the flood and has thus escaped the punishment that would have been due.

  We hereby command you as follows: you are to make your way in all secrecy to Ishím Voróo and to seek out Sinthoras. Find him and bring him back so that he may, together with yourself, lead assaults on the elves in Lesinteïl and landur. Not as nostàroi, but in the capacity of a highly respected benàmoi.

  Our people are severely weakened and are in great need of heroes to look up to. You and Sinthoras are just such heroes. The battle of the Golden Plain is still spoken of with awe.

  On your way, Caphalor! On your way!

  And bring the Hero back to us.

  This letter is your permit to travel in Tark Draan.

  The imperial seal had been stamped in the wax beneath the text.

  Anyone would think they wanted to reappoint me as nostàroi. I would not accept. Caphalor looked over the battlements and past the camps toward Ishím Voróo. Memories of his previous journey flashed through his mind: he and Sinthoras had been sent away to win the mist-demon as an ally.

  The memories were not pleasant ones.

  There was no hint now of where the demon might be. He has abandoned our cause.

  Caphalor had an inkling that this was why the Sibling Rulers were recalling Sinthoras; they would be desperate to call on the demon’s powers given the starkly reduced numbers of surviving älfar. Only with his help would the Tark Draan campaign be successful.

  They aren’t even considering the plague, or that I might pick up the infection. Caphalor looked at the camp. I’ll go this very night.

  He quickly left the tower to find and brief his deputy. Then he would write a note for Imàndaris. She had to be told what his mission was and why he was leaving for the wilderness once more.

  In the middle of the night, certain that most of the älfar in the camps would be asleep, Caphalor rode through a gap in the barrier. Thick snow was falling.

  His night-mare, Sardaî, was loaded up only with the most indispensable items for the journey. Comfort was not a concern, but speed was. He made sure he was not showing any kind of insignia and took care to cover his armor with a wide mantle. Nobody would know who was heading quickly north that night—and nobody would suspect that an älf would ride from the safety of Tark Draan through a tent village that still harbored the plague.

  Sardaî easily jumped the acid-filled ditches and raced past the guards’ braziers. No one stopped him, no one called out. Those waiting in the camps were not interested in the solitary rider—not, that is, until he was confronted by a veiled figure at the far end of the new arrivals’ compound.

  Parasite land. “Out of my way!” barked Caphalor, swerving aside.

  The älf mirrored his movement almost as if begging to be ridden down.

  Caphalor had no mercy and set his night-mare to charge straight on.

  At the last moment the figure darted aside.

  What the blazes was that in aid of? He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the cloaked älf had snatched one of his saddlebags. A thief! Caphalor reined Sardaî in and turned. I’m not letting you get away with that.

  He raced back. It was in that saddlebag that he had stored the vital imperial letter: the letter describing his mission and allowing him to pass—and the masked älf was holding it. He seemed to have recognized its significance and was rushing through the camp toward the gate, waving the paper in the air and shouting.

  The commotion woke the other occupants and they came streaming out of their tents: living obstacles to Caphalor’s passage.

  “Faster, Sardaî, but mind who you kick!” Caphalor urged his mount.

  A desperate race ensued between the thief and the black steed. Caphalor helped where he could with skillful use of the reins, and encouraged the night-mare to leap over the ditches, but all of the dodging and swerving meant lost time, and the daring thief had already gained a head start.

  It is vital he doesn’t get through to Tark Draan, or he’ll take the parasite infection with him. Caphalor drew his sword. The masked älf was destined for a swift death anyway: he had seen the content of the letter.

  The archers on the battlements had followed what was happening. They took up their positions and raised their bows.

  The thief had already left the last of the three camps behind him and was racing up to the barricade when he stumbled, quickly regaining his footing, flourished the letter and shouted: “Let me through! I’ve got a pass from the Inextinguishables! Here! Read it for yourselves!”

  I’ve nearly got you! Caphalor saw no further hindrances and urged Sardaî to fly like the wind. The night-mare stretched out with sparks flashing around his hooves, more like a lightning storm than a horse.

  “Stop where you are, thief! Hand me back the letter you stole and I’ll let you live.”

  But the masked figure, already near the barrier, did not hear him. He was illuminated by search lights and torches. The sentries operated their catapults, adjusting the trajectory.

  I warned you. Caphalor hurled his sword.

  The weapon whizzed through the night and struck the thief on the nape of his neck. He fell to the ground without a cry, without any sound at all. He rolled over and over, the paper flying up into the air as his grasp loosened. The letter was carried off by the north wind and landed behind the barrier.

  “Oi, you there on the night-mare,” the sentry yelled down at him. “Stop right where you are or I’ll fill you full of arrows.”

  “I am Caphalor!” he called out, but in the simple attire he had selected for the journey and with his face hidden by his hood, no one would recognize the benàmoi of the Gateway.

  “Oh, sure. Stay exactly where you are. Or die!” came the scornful rejoinder.

  I have to get that letter back! “Jump, Sardaî!” He forced his heels into the night-mare’s flanks and the beast launched itself into the air.

  The catapults snapped into action.

  Arrows hissed just under them as the creature leaped over the barrier. On the other side they were quickly surrounded by lance-bearers. Caphalor saw the letter lying next to Sardaî’s left fore hoof.

  “Slow down,” he called to his soldiers, throwing back his hood to reveal his face. They lowered their spears, but seemed unsure as to what they should do. Their orders said clearly that no one who had been in Ishím Voróo was to come through to Tark Draan. “I dropped this.” Caphalor slid down from the saddle to retrieve the letter, showing it to Ofardanór, his deputy, who had come running over.

  He could hear shouting from the compounds. That wild chase had caused great upheaval and the thief’s dead body lay only a few paces short of the barrier. His fate had upset the others and they were incensed.

  Ofardanór read the lines and, with a meaningful hard look, ordered his soldiers to stand down their weapons. “He is allowed back in,” he announced, holding up the permit. “This is special permission from the Inextinguishables.” He handed the letter back to Caphalor.

  Caphalor could see that the handwriting had become smudged in the relevant part of the letter. Ofardanór had not been able to read the permission. I certainly appointed the right älf for my deputy. He thanked him quietly and climbed up onto the barrier to see what was happening in the camps. Mayhem over there. I can’t risk it again tonight.

  He jumped down to stand next to his second-in-command. “Shoot fire-arrows at the corpse and
make sure nothing escapes from him, in case he is a worm-carrier.”

  Caphalor went back to Sardaî and took the bridle to lead the night-mare back to the stables. The Sibling Rulers will have to issue a new pass. I can’t depend on others being as loyal as Ofardanór.

  Back in the stable he checked over Sardaî and found a long shallow cut on one flank, still bleeding. The thief had slit the saddlebag strap with a blade. Serves him right that he died like that.

  He took the saddle off carefully and attended to the wound. Sardaî snorted with discomfort, but allowed him to do it. Stitches would not be necessary; the injury would heal by itself with the help of the salve that Caphalor was applying.

  As he inspected the saddlebag, he remembered losing one on his last ride to Ishím Voróo. But this time it had been stolen, not lost. Maybe I should forget about taking luggage.

  His thoughts wandered and returned to the state of the camps he and Sardaî had charged through to catch the thief. He was tormented by the images of misery and suffering his people were subject to. I am responsible. Sinthoras and I, we’re both responsible for following the Sibling Rulers’ orders.

  If they had never found the mist-demon and won him over as an ally, the demon would not have attacked the kingdom of the fflecx and eradicated that race. And then the dorón ashont would not have come across the gnomes’ unguarded stores of chemicals and Dsôn would not have been destroyed.

  If Sinthoras and I had failed in our mission, many, many lives would have been spared. The Heroes of Tark Draan are answerable for all of the glory and all of the destruction. Caphalor shut his eyes and made a solemn vow to do everything in his power to protect his people better in their new homeland. Samusin, give me the strength I shall need to make amends.

  Sardaî gave a whinny of warning.

  “How kind you are in caring for him,” said a familiar, but totally unexpected voice.

  Caphalor’s eyes widened in surprise and he whirled around. “You? Here?”

  He stared at Sinthoras a good four heartbeats long. The long blond hair shone like gold and he was wearing a guard’s simple armor.

  “How did you get in here?” Caphalor asked, astonished. He added with a smile, “And tell me who I’ve got to execute for not noticing you.”

  “Your people are good. I would not have got past them.” Sinthoras came up to Caphalor and embraced him. “It’s so good to see you!”

  “You very nearly missed me.” Caphalor returned the hug warmly, not thinking about the parasites Sinthoras might have brought with him. “I was on my way to Ishím Voróo.”

  “I know. That was quite a commotion you caused, going out and coming back!” Sinthoras clapped him on the shoulders. “Ye gods! Ye gods! To think I would ever see you again! What were you going to do out in the wilds? Or were you being sent to Dsôn Faïmon?”

  Caphalor had gotten over the shock. “Tell me how you got in to the fortress and I’ll tell you about my mission to Ishím Voróo.”

  “I kept to the terms of the Inextinguishables’ sentence.”

  “And those would be?”

  Sinthoras pointed east. “I was to keep going west until I could go no farther. So, of course I did just that. I went west and came around again in the east,” he said with a grin. “I wanted to get to Dsôn Balsur, but when I heard the Inextinguishables were there I thought it would be better to ask you to speak to them on my behalf, because I don’t think they would accept my version of events.”

  “That’s . . . unbelievable!” Caphalor laughed out loud. This is the type of thing I have missed so much. “You should hear yourself! You tell lies bold as brass!”

  “Me? Telling lies? You think people might assume I’d got to Tark Draan before you built the barriers and that I’d been hiding here ever since?” Sinthoras was amused. “Well, they could say that, but they can’t really prove it, can they? I promise you—if you ride west for long enough you’ll arrive back in the east. Of course, I have no idea how long it might take to do that. And anyway I was only exiled from Dsôn Faïmon. And—” He laughed again. “Count the graves of those I’ve slain in the name of the Sibling Rulers. Must be far more than the 10,000 they demanded of me, so I’ve already met two conditions toward ending my banishment.”

  “You are quite incorrigible. Heroically so.” Caphalor had calmed down now and held out his partly indecipherable letter. “You can save your transparent excuses. Read this. The Inextinguishables want us both back.”

  His friend’s eyes sparkled. “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes. Your name is to be cleared. You won’t be a nostàroi, and nor will I, but we’re both back with the army as benàmoi.” And we can work off our guilt.

  Sinthoras sat down on a bale of straw and read the letter with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. “That is—” He cleared his throat and wiped his face. “I really have been out in the wilderness,” he said emptily. “The thoughts that went through my head . . . I can’t describe what it was like, Caphalor. I contemplated founding my own empire, raising my own army and setting off to save Dsôn. I was in despair and tortured myself with recriminations . . . and never more so than when I put the blade of my knife to my own throat. The worst thing . . . But, Caphalor! Both of us?” He jumped up and hugged his friend once more, overwhelmed with joy. “I shall have a reputation to be proud of; I’ll be respected and admired. And I’ll rip out the tongues of all those who gave false witness and blackened my name.”

  That sounds a bit more like our old Sinthoras. Caphalor clapped him on the back. “Then off we go. I don’t have to bother going to Ishím Voróo now. Though I rather doubt whether any of your enemies are still around.”

  “They can’t all have died of the sickness, though I would have wished it for them.”

  Caphalor was surprised at his friend’s continued high spirits. “You don’t know what happened to Dsôn?” Sinthoras looked blank. “The city has been completely destroyed. The dorón ashont obliterated it in a river of acid.”

  All jauntiness drained away from the blond älf’s face. He mouthed the name Timanris, and clung to a wooden pole to stop himself falling.

  “I can see we’ll have to drown our troubles in wine before we set out to join our rulers.”

  Sinthoras put his hand to his throat, shaking his head in disbelief. Words would not come.

  “I’ll tell you everything that has happened.” Caphalor stroked Sardaî’s nostrils affectionately and left the stable in the company of Sinthoras.

  His own situation had improved due to his banished companion’s return and he had regained something he had thought lost forever: hope.

  Now he saw his first task would be to try and restore some of the same thing to Sinthoras.

  It was not going to be easy.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard) to the southwest of the Gray Mountains, enchanted land of Siminia,

  4372nd division of unendingness (5200th solar cycle),

  spring.

  Simin the Underrated was proud of his assembled friends: Grok-Tmai the Worrier in his gray and black robe; Hianna the Flawless, her opulent attire swapped for a simple lavender-colored dress; Fensa the Inventive in a flowered outfit; and Famenia the Tested, wearing a costume best suited to a court jester on holiday.

  They were all seated around the table and it was his proposal they were all studying. His own suggested draft for a banning spell.

  They each read through the text in silence and made notes, consulting learned tomes.

  Famenia gave up first with an apologetic gesture. She was very young to take on the task of succeeding Jujulo the Jolly and did not feel up to handling this kind of magic. Simin nodded indulgently.

  The afternoon hours drifted past.

  Hianna was the next one to put down her quill; Grok-Tmai followed suit. A little later Fensa completed her suggested amendments.

  “Well?” asked Simin impatiently, unable to wait any longer. “Famenia, you don’t have to say anything.”

  She nodded gra
tefully, relieved that she would not be forced to make a fool of herself.

  “I’d like to start,” said Grok-Tmai. “The basic approach for this spell is sound, but in my opinion there’s a fatal mistake in the first line.”

  This grudging objection gave rise to a heated discussion between the various magi. Many new proposals were put on the table and many of them were quickly rejected.

  Simin had to admit that he had made a couple of assumptions that had not been thoroughly thought through, but he considered some of the other objections quite laughable. However, with the exception of Famenia, they had all contributed valuable ideas. Famenia had hardly understood what the others were talking about.

  Evening drew in, but it found them still arguing and splitting hairs. They did not break off their discussion until late in the night when tiredness overcame them all.

  Simin had picked up a few useful hints as to how he could revise and improve the formula and he thanked the others for their assistance. “There are so many aspects to consider. I’m glad to have the benefit of your views. With our united efforts we will find a way to keep this mist-demon out of Girdlegard for good. Let’s get to bed now and meet again at dawn to carry on our discussion. We have made an excellent start.”

  They applauded. One by one they stood up to go to their rest, disappearing into the chambers he had set aside for them.

  Famenia stayed where she was, looking sad and fiddling with a quill.

  Simin read her expression. She’s feeling superfluous, I expect. “Don’t be upset. Jujulo could not have known what challenges his apprentice would one day have to face.” He came over to where she sat and stroked her hair as a father might.

  “So what use am I at all?” she said, downcast. “I can produce a few gusts of wind, a fireworks display and an illusion or two.”

  “And without those skills Milltown would never have been saved,” he reminded her. “Talent and imagination were needed to adapt the music spell to serve as a barrier in that way.”