Devastating Hate

  At least I’m making good progress; there’s less dense woodland here than I thought there might be. The mission she had been given by the nostàroi would take her deep into enemy territory, to a point around 600 miles south of the Gray Mountains. This would be the assembly point for the hidden army: a secret reserve and surprise element that could be called upon to join the battle if they were needed. And Horgàta was now their commander.

  The cavalry of this force alone numbered a good 5,000 warriors already. Any hiding place for so many fighters and their mounts would have to be carefully selected, so Horgàta had left first in order to check out the site. If she found it unsuitable—strategically unsound or too easy to discover—she would have to decide where to send all the other troops and leave signs and messages for the ones yet to arrive.

  She had not bothered to disguise herself as an elf because it was essential not to be seen at all. In any case, the dark provided enough cover. Occasionally she would stop and consult the map, navigating by the stars and moon to assess how far she had already traveled. At least the stars were the same here as they were in Ishím Voróo.

  Less than a mile to go and I’ll have covered all 600. Horgàta reined her night-mare in on a slight rise and let her gaze take in the horizon, then leaned forward and patted the neck of her steed. The animal snorted quietly, white foam flying from its lips. She looked down the steep side of the hill.

  Below lay a small town with a low defense wall that would not serve for much more than encouraging the cattle not to stray. The meeting point must be down there somewhere. She tried to guess the number of inhabitants from the houses.

  “A few thousand,” she whispered.

  An idea occurred to her.

  She noted a wide path on the slope beneath her that led straight up to the settlement. Every so often a lane would branch off toward buildings on the banks of the little river. She could see millwheels turning and lamps burning inside the mills. The barbarians were obviously still at work although it was night.

  Horgàta dismounted. “Wait,” she commanded her night-mare and she started to climb down the steep cliff face, recent chisel marks telling her that she was in a quarry.

  She jumped down from rock to rock, balancing carefully, and had soon covered several hundred paces of vertical distance. Toward the bottom of the quarry there was some scaffolding that enabled her to move more quickly.

  With one final leap she reached the ground. The path she had seen led to piles of stones ready for transport. It looked as if quite hefty boulders were being extracted. Building materials, I expect. They must ship it along the river.

  Then Horgàta noticed an entrance leading into the mountain. She hurried through, making no sound.

  Like everywhere else she had been in Tark Draan, nobody was on guard duty. The barbarians relied on the groundlings keeping watch at the mountain passes, so they would probably only have to fear the occasional band of robbers. Monsters like the óarcos and trolls must have been eradicated—or were in hiding.

  This made it easy for Horgàta to examine the tunnel. She took a torch from the wall and lit it with a flint.

  A tunnel three paces high and ten paces wide had been fashioned through the rock and there were deep ruts cut into the floor. Carts? She made her way farther along.

  The tunnel sloped upward and opened out into a cavern that had formed naturally, but the barbarians had adapted it; there was a dark lake in the middle and next to it, a human-built scaffold tower that led up to enormous stalactites. Some had been partially removed, but others were still intact. On the right-hand side of the cave there were some rafts tied together, forming a makeshift bridge across to a snowy white wall. I wonder if the stone being quarried is particularly valuable?

  The banks of the little lake were piled high with crates that were filled with pieces of stone. A system of ropes and pulleys connected the floor to the roof of the cave.

  Horgàta turned around and looked down the tunnel, then back to the lake, crossed the bridge and pulled out one of the long poles that supported the scaffold to test how deep the water was. Less than seven paces and the edges are quite flat.

  Horgàta dismissed her original idea, because now she had a new plan. But she would not be able to implement it until sufficient numbers of älfar had arrived.

  The Inextinguishables have sent their blessings. She left the cavern and returned to her waiting night-mare. The nostàroi could hardly have chosen a better place for their secret army to assemble.

  Tark Draan (Girdlegard), Gray Mountains, Stone Gateway,

  4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle)

  late summer.

  Something’s up. Carmondai strolled through the tunnels, no longer finding them as difficult to navigate as he had done previously. After the incident with the óarcos, he had made sure he knew all of the most important of the passages so that he would not get lost again. Now he was on his way to find Caphalor for one of their regular meetings. It was hardly a true friendship they shared but their relationship was amicable in a way that would not have worked between himself and Sinthoras.

  He thought hard as he walked: the mood in the Gray Mountains was changing. The nostàroi had not made use of the initial euphoria to whip the troops into a conquering frenzy and sweep through Tark Draan, and nobody but himself and Caphalor knew the real reason: that Sinthoras was not in the mountain. If his absence was noticed and the cause discovered there might be a mutiny.

  But if we wait much longer the campaign will have to start in winter. Carmondai did not have any illusions of grandeur about his own strategic planning skills, but he knew you did not attack when the ground was covered in ice and snow. And nobody knew what the climate was like in the winter months in Tark Draan. Carmondai smoothed down his midnight blue robe as he entered the hall once again. The dark-haired nostàroi was waiting for him by the map-strewn table.

  “Carmondai, good to see you,” came the welcome. Caphalor was not wearing ceremonial attire, but a flowing silk robe in dark gray and red. “I’m sure they tell you more than they tell me: what is new? Is my army buzzing with rumors and unrest?”

  Carmondai conjured up a half-hearted smile as he pushed back the hood from his brown hair. “The älfar are well disciplined and that will always be the case, even in a hundred divisions of unendingness. But the óarcos are roaring through the tunnels like fire-bulls looking for mates; they start fights for the stupidest of reasons and they brawl with anyone they come across.” He came over and placed his writing folder on the table, opening it to show some of his latest notes. “The trolls have split up and are all over the Gray Mountains, while the demi-giants have decided to head south into Tark Draan. They are determined to get out—”

  “I know,” interrupted Caphalor, irritably. “I’ve sent twenty pairs of the Goldsteel Unit after them to talk them around. Or to kill them. What about the barbarians?”

  “You’re close with Farron Lotor, aren’t you? Wasn’t there that slave girl . . . ?” Carmondai leafed through his records then noticed the nostàroi’s displeasure. “Am I wrong about that?”

  “No. But I would prefer you not to mention Raleeha. She is . . . was a slave and does not deserve to be named.” Caphalor took a sip of steaming tea. “I have not seen her brother Farron for a long time. He told me she was found dead on the battlefield.”

  Carmondai took a breath and continued away from that topic. “In any case, the barbarian troops are still behaving, but they are ill at ease. Most of them thought they would have invaded Tark Draan by now and be preparing to dig in for the winter in newly conquered land. Instead, they are cooped up here with the worst kind of beasts for companions.” Carmondai leafed through his notes for a moment then found another item that he wanted to bring to Caphalor’s attention. “I also hear there is still trouble with the groundlings.”

  “You mean the dispersed groundlings?”

  Carmondai nodded. “It’s said they have laid traps and killed a lot of ou
r allies. Apparently the insurgents are always killed, but . . .” He trailed off and indicated the walls. “The first barbarians are already showing signs of mania due to being cooped up in here, and are beginning to think the mountains can give birth to more groundlings whenever and wherever they like.”

  Caphalor leaned on the table. “I wish Sinthoras would get himself back here,” he complained. “Then we could set off.”

  “You gave him permission to go,” Carmondai said.

  “I know. It was a bad idea. I allowed myself to become sentimental.” He pulled a map of Tark Draan over; troop movements were displayed with colored threads. “Until he comes back, why don’t you look at my plans?” He handed Carmondai a page of notes explaining which color stood for which army unit.

  “I’m no tactician.”

  Caphalor gave a low laugh. “No, indeed, you are not. But I’ve listened to suggestions from my best soldiers and now I’m keen to hear the views of a poet.” He handed him a cup and poured him some tea.

  Carmondai studied the map. The colored threads formed an intricate web suspended over the north of the land. “So, I’m one of your advisers, now? How have I earned this honor?”

  “I’m not one to bear a grudge. Sinthoras may be different, but I’m not going to exclude good advice—wherever it comes from.” Caphalor laughed. “Perhaps this is a kind of test. Maybe I have invented this set of troop movements purely to check whether or not you would betray my plans?”

  Carmondai could not help laughing. Feeling a little lighter, he studied the notes with care. The trolls had been placed in the west, the óarcos would work in a broad sweep to the south, flanked by the ogres and the demi-giants. All the monster divisions were to be accompanied by älfar units, and the barbarians from Ishím Voróo would be bringing up the rear. Elsewhere, a regiment of their own warriors was detailed to deal with the elf realms. Revenge on the elves is reserved for our kind.

  “This is only a provisional plan because I need to wait for the scouts to report back,” he heard Caphalor say. “This strategy is based on their initial messages.”

  Carmondai tapped his chin with the forefinger of one hand. It all seemed to make sense. But . . . “What about the barbarians in Tark Draan who can do magic? Have you considered how to handle them? Or have you discounted them as presenting only an insignificant risk?”

  “An excellent point! It seems our poet has a good head on his shoulders. My advisers did not come up with that objection.”

  Carmondai drank some of the fragrant tea. An infusion of thujona berries: a precious commodity! The dried fruits that made up this tea were only available to the wealthy. It was an infusion that refreshed and cleared the mind like the music of a soul-toucher. This was only the second time Carmondai had ever had a chance to taste it. Carmondai smiled.

  “I thought you would appreciate the drink,” Caphalor grinned. “To return to your objection: my spies report that there are six so-called magi: three men and three women. They live with their pupils and have very odd names, like—” He fished out a piece of parchment from among the maps. “Here we go: Jujulo the Jolly, Simin the Underrated, Grok-Tmai the Worrier and Hianna the Flawless, Fensa the Inventive, and Ortina the Omnipresent.” He let out a peal of malicious laughter. “Amusing, aren’t they?”

  Carmondai made a note of these names. “Might it not be dangerous to underestimate these wizards? We don’t know what they might be capable of.”

  “I have fought against the botoicans,” Caphalor cut in harshly, as if insulted by the remark. “I learned one thing for certain: there is no need to fear a magician if you shoot straight and your arrow reaches his mouth before he has spoken his spell.”

  “Of course,” said Carmondai with false cheerfulness, striking himself on the forehead. “I was forgetting. You called me in to congratulate you on every aspect of your plan and to write it all down in my book: Caphalor planned the Tark Draan campaign strategy all by himself while Sinthoras was swanning around in Dsôn being romantic!” His jolly tone faded abruptly. “Nostàroi, you asked me for my opinion and I gave it to you. If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, don’t ask me to come here.” He was surprised at his own audacity. Is this the effect of the berries, making me so outspoken? Strangely, he felt no fear. His words and thoughts had never seemed clearer.

  Caphalor took a deep breath, but no fury lines appeared on his face. “None of my benàmoi would have dared to say that. They certainly would not have phrased their objections so strongly.”

  “Maybe we can blame the tea.”

  “That’s why I gave it to you,” the nostàroi said, smugly. He raised his glass. “My scouts had been told to explore the enchanted lands and find out where the magi live. You may have forgotten what we said a few moments of unendingness ago. At the briefing session.”

  Carmondai did remember. “You are of the opinion the magi don’t present a danger?”

  Caphalor nodded. “If what we have been told is true, they can only do magic on their own territory because they need to use the energy sources there. When away from home ground they are presumably easier to defeat than an unarmed barbarian.”

  “Presumably,” stressed Carmondai. “And how do you propose to find out whether your spies’ reports are actually true?”

  “We shall see.” Caphalor sat down. “I must thank you for the descriptions you have sent back to Dsôn. People there are very enthusiastic. They are behind us totally, and those who think differently have been more or less silenced.”

  Carmondai attempted to suppress the effect of the thujona berries, but his soul felt light and his lips were eager to form words that he saw as glowing symbols in the air. They look so beautiful! I must say these things! “The Constellations will be doing what they always do; they stand on the firmament and look down to watch what comes to pass,” he blathered, annoyed with himself for not finding a more elegant expression; he was supposed to be the master of words, after all. “But I hear they have never forgiven you for being a Comets supporter.” I never meant to say that!

  Caphalor’s lips narrowed. “So? I have never been one for politics. I want nothing to do with it.”

  “But the Comets regard you as one of them. And you left Dsôn Faïmon to make yourself their willing tool.”

  All at once the fury lines broke out across Caphalor’s face and he jumped to his feet. “Don’t you dare impugn my reasons for joining the campaign,” he shouted. “It’s not for the Inextinguishables, nor for the vanity and greed of the Comets that I’m laying waste to Tark Draan. And I don’t care about the Constellations either.”

  Carmondai was fascinated: he could see the words Caphalor had uttered shimmering bright red in the air, quivering with hatred and fury.

  Caphalor strode toward him and Carmondai was suddenly afraid for his life. The nostàroi grabbed him by the collar and swept him up into the air. “It is for my own motives that I shall be burning Tark Draan to the ground. My own! This land bears the blame for my—” He stopped speaking abruptly, his whole body shaking, and he thrust Carmondai aside. The writer managed to keep his balance but collided with a chair. He sat down and stared at Caphalor.

  The nostàroi’s hands were clenched fists. He was breathing quickly. A single tear made its way down his cheek and splashed to the floor.

  Carmondai heard the tear fall as loud as if it had been thunder. Suddenly he understood. In his eyes Tark Draan is responsible for the death of his life-partner! “I understand—”

  A whispering, falsely friendly voice was heard in their heads:

  Carmondai looked around in surprise. No one had knocked. He saw a flurry at the doorway and cried out in horror. The mist-demon!

  The thujona berries gave Carmondai the ability to see him not as the silver shimmering ghostly apparition others had described, but as a terrifyingly ugly visage that kept changing shape and spoke with many mouths. The words it spoke hung in the air like toxic, acid syllables. Carmondai slid back
to avoid them and fell from his chair.

  Caphalor turned to the mist-demon and attempted to control his own distress. “This is indeed not a good time, but we will make ourselves available for you nevertheless.”

  The terrible cloud drifted closer.

  Carmondai managed to get back on his feet and put the table between him and the demon. This is the most dreadful of our allies! His gut reaction was to flee, but he grabbed hold of his last vestiges of courage, honor and pride; if Caphalor was staying, he would stay, too.

 

  “He is with the troops,” the nostàroi replied.

  The cloud went dark, with a few greenish yellow stars appearing in the middle.

  “He will be back soon,” Carmondai said without thinking, in the hope the demon would go away once it had heard what it needed to know.

 

  “He was needed in Dsôn for some very urgent matters. As soon as these have been dealt with, he will be returning,” said Caphalor, without looking at Carmondai. “It is better if the troops don’t know.”

  The cloud turned into a dark green mass with bright blue tentacles.

  “And nor would you,” countered Caphalor. “We need each other.”

  Carmondai had to admire the nostàroi’s composure in the face of this evil presence. But then, he didn’t have any of the thujona tea, did he?

  The cloud swirled around the älfar.