Devastating Hate by Markus Heitz Page B

gotten the lowliest of his household slaves to carry them out onto the street and destroy them in public view.
    He took no notice when passers-by greeted him. He slouched along until his legs started to hurt and he was forced to use the litter his servants were carrying. After all, he was getting old.
    When he thought back to his dreams of the future! Everything he had hoped and planned for his beloved great nephew! “My young hero—cut off in his prime,” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands, and wiping his tears on his sleeve.
    Polòtain had thrown off his deepest despair before returning to his city residence; grief paralyzed one and prevented any clear thought. This was the most grueling battle he had ever waged and it was against an enemy in his own ranks and for whom he felt the most devastating hatred.
    His servants halted and Polòtain got out of the litter.
    Before he was halfway into the forecourt, his great-grandson Godànor rushed over, dressed in a black robe with wide white leather straps adorned with gold and silver at hip and across the chest. “There you are at last! You have a visitor.”
    Polòtain suspected he knew who the visitor could be; would this be the promised assistance? “Why are you making it so mysterious?”
    “I’m not. Ask me whatever you want.” Godànor took his arm and hurried him across the courtyard toward the slaves’ quarters.
    “Slow down! I’ve been walking all day.” Polòtain decided not to ask who was waiting for him.
    Passing the slave building they reached a small smithy and Godànor opened the door.
    There were two armed älfar waiting inside, their light armor marked with the insignia of Eranior. They had tied two humans, chained together, to the anvil. The barbarians were in dirty, torn clothing and cowered in fear as Polòtain and his grandson entered. An acrid smell from one of them suggested he might be suffering from some unpleasant chronic disease.
    “Samrai and Chislar,” Godànor introduced the älfar at arms, then pulled out a letter to give his great-grandfather. “They brought you these two barbarians and this letter.”
    Polòtain broke the seal and read the few short lines which wished him every success with his interrogation. These men were apparently two of the three slaves found brawling in the street on that fateful night. Robonor had been on the point of arresting them when he had been killed. The note went on to say that something extra would be arriving shortly.
    Polòtain was elated. These barbarians were vital pieces in the mosaic of his case against Sinthoras!
    He handed Godànor the letter and gestured to the ragged prisoners to stand up. They struggled to their feet at the anvil, their chains tightening. “Whose slaves are you?” He resented having to use their language. He took a fire iron and shoved it into the glowing furnace, telling Godànor to work the bellows.
    “Do you mean who we belong to or do you mean who we serve?” came the reply from the barbarian who stank slightly less than the other one.
    “What is your name?”
    The slaves exchanged glances as if they were trying to ensure they did not say the wrong thing.
    Polòtain used the fire iron to sweep red-hot coals in their direction. There was a smell of burning: clothes, hair and skin. The men screamed and batted the coals away as best they could. “Look at me, not each other!” he ordered, a terrifying coldness in his voice. “Did you serve Sinthoras?”
    They shook their heads.
    “Well?”
    “I am Errec, and this is Amso. We . . . serve Halofór,” stammered the less unsavory one. “We always have done.”
    “Landaròn’s brother?” Polòtain broke into a malicious grin. Landaròn was Sinthoras’s cousin and it was pretty clear that he would have done him the odd favor or two. “Did your master tell you to stage a brawl in front of the slaves’ tavern?” He pulled the iron out of the fire and held the white-hot tip against the chains at the