Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  A shout from up ahead. A group of eight soldiers near the postern gate hailed them as they approached. They were wearing the tabard of the city guard, the yellow crossing the deep blue that gave Azurcourt its name. On the blue field reared the three-headed hydra of the Triarchs. Two of the heads, Hemel and Eckel’s, were dim outlines, but the middle head, the one that represented Mira, was richly detailed with finely worked yellow and green threads to show these men were of her city. The eyes shone with red gems, mostly garnets and less valuable stones, though some of the higher ranked officers wore rubies and red diamonds. No such men were present.

  “I’m pleased to see my Lady is safe,” said the ranking man. “Lord Zeion,” he added with a nod.

  Zeion surveyed the group. “Where is Captain Marks?” he asked.

  The soldier frowned. “Dead, sir.” Mira gasped. Zeion remained stone-faced. Marks had been captain of the guard and a friend of the castle, practically an uncle to Mira. He and Zeion got on well enough, their only contention being Zeion’s false title. Zeion was a hero, perhaps, and Lady Mira’s personal protector, but ‘Lord’ was merely an affectation bestowed upon him by those who admired him. He was not a proper lord or even a noble of the lowest stripe.

  Still, Zeion had been attached to the title, one of his few vanities. Marks said he’d reserve the title for the man who wed Lady Mira, but now that time would never come. It was a rivalry of peacetime, dwarfed and petty in war, and his skill with a sword would be sorely missed should trouble arise.

  “I’m Sergeant Lowe,” said the soldier in charge. “A pleasure, sir. Or it, erm, would be if…” He waved his hand vaguely at the distant battle in the east. He coughed and continued. “Erm, Marks was taken unawares when sappers slipped past the north wall, and Lieutenant Forrest took an arrow in the east. I was about to start the grim business of setting up a hierarchy here, what with our luck being so ill, but with Adgronius Zeion at our side, we might just make it out of here alive.” He said the last loudly to the gathered men and smiled a bright but unconvincing smile. When he saw Lady Mira staring at him, speechless from terror, he flushed and let the smile drop. “A-anyway, are we all ready?”

  “We are,” said Zeion, hoisting the short-shafted war hammer in one hand. Despite his cleaning, flecks of blood whipped off the head and splattered against the stone wall. “If any of these brutes want to harm the Lady, they answer to Senmozar.”

  The sergeant nodded. “My Lady will ride with Corporal Hoyer. He’s an excellent rider and will keep my Lady safe.”

  Mira frowned, counting the mounts. “I can ride well enough alone. Why is there no horse for me?”

  “I’m afraid these are the last of the horses in all Azurcourt, my Lady, and they weren’t easy to acquire. That, and, erm…” Lowe cleared his throat, trying to think of a politic way to phrase it. “I don’t mean to impugn my Lady’s riding skill, but this is no pleasure ride through the castle’s gardens. The horses will need to be calmed by sure hands should we find trouble and my Lady have simply not been taught how to handle a warhorse. Marks reserved Starknuckle for you, Lord Zeion,” he added quickly, averting his gaze from Mira’s rising protest and gesturing towards a large black stallion, it’s distinctively five-pointed hooves pawing at the dirt impatiently. “I don’t need to tell you to stay close to the Lady and keep her safe, but, erm, do that.”

  Zeion helped a reluctant Mira up between the reins and the soldier named Hoyer—who, despite all the carnage, was trying his best not to look too pleased with having the Lady so close to him—before hoisting himself up onto Starknuckle. He swayed in the saddle, his fatigue making him unsteady.

  Despite his clumsy speech, Lowe pulled himself nimbly onto his own mount. He moved his horse before the assembled soldiers. “You know the orders, everyone; our Lady’s safety is priority one, for our cities may fall, but our people shall not flee in disorder. If a man falls or a horse stumbles, they’re to be left behind. This includes Lord Zeion and, erm, myself. We move at full gallop until the Leiran Forest then maintain half pace through to the other side. We head for the coast. If you get separated, we meet at Spirit Rock in three days, assuming the orcs haven’t pushed that far by then, then turn south towards the Kingdom of Verka. If the gods are good”—he stopped as if the words choked him—“rather, with any luck, the lizardfolk will hear our pleas and let us pass through the Isthmus of Maltu.”

  The gods are not good, thought Zeion. He turned in his saddle and watched as a market stall collapsed into a burning pile of timber. The gods are why this city burns.

  Zeion could not even say that mankind didn’t deserve punishment. But this? Was this what Annowyn called justice?

  Mira raised her hand. “Speak freely, my Lady,” said Lowe. “No need for formality here.”

  “Isn’t the city surrounded? How are we going to escape?”

  “When the wall was breached, the vast majority of the orcish horde swung around to the east side. That ill bit of luck and their brutal stupidity will work to our advantage, though not for long.”

  Seeing no more questions were forthcoming, Lowe gave a brusque hand signal. The portcullis began to rise. “Our window is small, so let’s make the most of it,” he said shortly, pulling his horse around and sweeping through the gate, his helmet barely passing beneath the rising iron. Mira latched onto the horse’s neck as Hoyer spurred it forward. As they passed single file through the small gate, Zeion edged his horse as near to Mira's as he safely could. He wouldn’t let any orcs come upon her unawares.

  They burst into the open and immediately they were assaulted by the stench of the orcish camps, that of rotting and burning bodies. A few orcs, undoubtedly slaves by their rail-thin bodies and shabby clothing, were tearing down tents and packing supplies, preparing the army for the march as soon as the castle fell. They fled at the approach of the humans, who rode quickly past without a second glance.

  The road was unrecognizable, littered with the corpses of those who didn’t make it to the city in time or were dragged from the walls, their bodies torn apart or half-eaten. High mounds of dirt had been piled to provide some cover from archers since the orcs were wont to make camp dangerously close to the walls. Most of those slain by arrows had been the slaves forced to erect the mounds and tents, their bodies tossed into the pits the mounds were dug from or just left to rot where they fell, their sacrifice ultimately futile as the camps remained unused during the near continuous assault on Azurcourt’s defenses.

  “Attention, right flank!” called Lowe over the thunder of hoofbeats. “We’ve got incoming!”

  Three orcs, rippling with muscle and magic, raced forward on all four limbs, scampering like mad animals. Swollen with some dark power the men had never seen before nor could fully comprehend, they had ballooned to nearly twice the size of regular orcs, great arms and legs pounding the ground as they advanced. They carried no weapons, but the men knew better than to be relieved: Zeion had seen one of these bloated monsters rip a man in half with its bare hands, armor and all, and toss the body over its shoulder like a doll.

  The men pushed their horses as hard as they could, trying to put distance between themselves and the orcs, but the dark fury that empowered the orcs was like something from a nightmare. They moved easily as fast as the horses and were steadily gaining ground.

  “These beasts are like damned demons,” cursed Lowe. “Pardon my language, my Lady.” He turned to another soldier. “We’re not going to outrun them. Roald, get your bow. Everyone else form up around our Lady.”

  The men had to fight the horses to stop, as the animals were terrified of the smell of death and of the things that chased them. Gradually, they slowed to a halt. Roald pulled his short bow from his back. He stood up in his stirrups, nocked an arrow, and held it ready to fire, taking careful aim even as the orcs closed the distance. He let out a slow breath and released, sending an arrow straight into the skull of one of the advancing orcs, causing its body to roll for a good distance before sliding to a halt
.

  A cheer went up from the horsemen and Roald fired several more arrows, but the other two orcs deftly dodged them, closing the distance. The nine men pulled their horses around in a defensive arc as the orcs struck.

  One orc threw itself bodily at the first horseman it could reach, an action that would have sent man and horse to the ground had the men not prepared for him. Four spears and a sword met the creature, the force of the impact shattering two of the spears outright and jarring the men badly, but it stopped the orc in its tracks. It screeched and swung at the nearest horse, but the spears were lodged firmly in the flesh and the men pushed it back. The orc flailed at the men but only succeeded in driving the spears deeper into its torso, its dark bloodlust making it insane and either unwilling or unable to avoid injury. Another warrior pulled his horse around behind the orc, whose attempts to turn was hampered by the now firmly lodged spears. The man struck, taking the head clean off. The orc fell, its great body pulling the spears with it.

  The other orc was more cautious, circling the other half of the party. It singled out one soldier slow to get into formation and struck. The soldier moved to defend with his spear but was too slow as the orc grabbed his arm and snapped the bone with a jerk of his hand. The soldier screamed as he was pulled from the saddle and flung full force into the ground, the scream ending sharply on impact. Lowe and another soldier leaped forward, thrusting fiercely, but the orc dodged back, taking a defensive stance and eying the men.

  Roald raised his bow and snapped off a quick shot, but the orc swung an arm, taking the arrow to the hand without a care for the injury. Rather than charge forward like its companion, however, the orc kept its distance.

  “I think it intends to hold us here, knowing we can't escape,” said Hoyer, turning his steed so he and the other soldiers were between the Lady and the orc.

  “That’s the smartest thing I’ve seen one of these monsters do,” said Lowe. “Sure picked a hell of a time to get smart. Pardon my language, my Lady.”

  Zeion dismounted from his horse. “We need to take care of it before more of them show up.” He hefted his hammer, the action feeling slower than usual. He hoped his fatigue wasn’t severe enough to get him killed.

  Without hesitation, Zeion charged the orc who, in turn, immediately spun and struck with its wounded hand. Zeion ducked under it and delivered a sideways swing to the orc’s ribs, feeling several snap on impact. The orc roared and swung again, a blow that would have caught Zeion across the face had he not blocked it with both of his arms. Even with both arms and the protection of Senmozar, however, he was staggered, barely getting the hammer up in time to stop the double-armed overhead strike the orc was delivering. It seemed the fatigue was getting the better of him.

  His legs nearly buckled, but he remained standing. Irritated, the orc held the war hammer in place with one hand and slammed it with the other, trying to snap it in two. The enchanted weapon withstood the attack, but the blow sent a violent jolt down Zeion’s body. The orc struck a second time, but as it reared back for the third, an arrow caught it in the upper arm, a shot Roald intended for the head.

  It was enough for Zeion. Momentarily distracted, the orc had eased up on the war hammer. Zeion pushed it upwards with all his strength, slamming the orc’s face with its own hand, pulverizing the bones between jaw and steel. Zeion pulled Senmozar from the orc’s shattered grip and delivered a wild upwards strike to its chin, then, in one fluid motion, brought the war hammer around and down upon the stunned orc’s head with such force that its whole body was dragged down by the blow, smashing the skull between the weapon and the ground.

  Zeion allowed himself only a moment to breathe before running back to his horse and jumping on. “Let’s go!” he called out, urging his own horse over to Mira’s side, who was looking away with her eyes shut.

  “But, that soldier—” began Mara as the group started moving again.

  “Dead. That blow will have scrambled his brain. There’s nothing more we can do here.” Zeion had hoped one of the men had grabbed the man’s horse before it took the chance to flee seeing as they lacked spares, but he looked around to find the beast long departed. He cursed inwardly.

  They continued towards the forest. Behind, people swarmed out of the rear and postern gates, fleeing the city as the sounds of battle finally reached the castle. Shouts and ringing steel carried clear over the wall from the windows on the upper floors. They couldn’t afford to be stopped again or they would be overtaken.

  “Looks like we may have cut it a little close,” said Lowe. Several soldiers gave solemn nods.

  “It’s alright, you’ve all done fine work,” said Mira encouragingly. “We’ll make it to Verka yet. I trust all of you.”

  They fast approached the forest without further incident, the orcs having been drawn in by the carnage at the city. At the tree line, Lowe slowed to a halt. He looked back, the others following his gaze to the city, broken and burning, a much-too-near glow in the distance.

  “Lived my whole life in Azurcourt,” said Lowe, his moist eyes reflecting the licking flames. “No other city is gonna feel the same.”

  “If there are any other cities,” one soldier muttered. At a look from Zeion, he quieted.

  “Not your whole life, Sergeant,” said Zeion, working harder than he cared to admit to keep his face expressionless as his home burned. “A lot of people did, but we didn’t. We’ll be able to restart somewhere, whether Verka or the forests or the mountains. We get to keep living. Many people won’t get that chance. We would all do well to remember that.” He turned his horse towards the woods, having quickly grown sick of the scene. “With any luck, we’ll be able to return someday.”

  They made their way unsteadily through the forest. While the plan was to move at half pace, that was hopelessly unrealistic: the Leiran forest had no paths through it this far north. The horses stumbled and faltered on the uneven ground and unseen tree roots. It would be safer to dismount and lead their horses, but the precious minutes they gained by galloping across clearings and over streams could well mean the difference between capture and escape.

  Once, the kingdom of men built roads and bridges and cities. Zeion looked at the black forest and wondered, had complacency and sloth not taken hold, what they could have accomplished. There was a vast ocean on the other side of the forest that was dotted with villages, but despite profitable merchants sailing from the west, no proper city had ever sprung up to accommodate them. Sirik, god of progress, was no doubt displeased.

  His thoughts were interrupted as one of the horses screamed and collapsed, bringing a soldier down with it. “Laurence!” shouted another soldier, leaping down to help the man up, who had by good fortune been thrown clear and not crushed under the animal.

  “It’s no good,” said Laurence after checking his horse. “That was a poor misstep, twisted the leg something awful. The old girl won’t be supporting her weight any time soon.” He looked around at the others. “That’s fine. It’ll be easier to walk through the forest anyway.”

  Even Mira could tell he was putting on a brave face. Though he could probably keep pace in the forest if he pushed himself, the horses would be essential for the leg of the trip on the other side. Saddling him with someone else was out of the question: though a horse could support a soldier and a small woman like Mira, two fully armed and armored soldiers would tire out the horse too quickly and, without any replacements, they couldn’t risk losing another horse.

  Laurence quickly put the horse out of its misery and the group carried on. They pressed through the thick trees and shrubs, up treacherous hills and down into brambly ravines. The sound of wildlife returned as they made their way deeper into the forest, the hooting of owls and chattering of night insects making the darkness less oppressive. At one point, Lowe offered to switch with the walking soldier to give him some rest, but he was refused.

  They traveled this way for many hours, always an eye cast backward and an ear searching for any unusual sou
nd, but with no excitement and battle to fill him with adrenaline, Zeion was having trouble keeping himself awake. Mira was already snoozing against Hoyer’s chest, who looked alternately overjoyed and uncomfortable with the situation as he avoided Zeion’s gaze.

  Though he did not have to worry about Zeion’s gaze. The soldier on the horse in front took Starknuckle’s reins and nodded to Zeion. Zeion nodded his thanks in return, then closed his eyes, letting himself slump in the saddle and finally find sleep.

  He couldn’t feel the cold air anymore, but rather the warmth of spring. When he opened his eyes, he was in the Jade Hills north of Azurcourt overlooking the farmlands that surrounded the city. Below were the workers and animals laboring to plant the season’s crop of potatoes, sweet corn, and wheat, their calls to one another and garrulous singing dulled to meaninglessness by distance. He felt detached from them from up on the hill, though he doubted proximity would make him feel any different. He had never felt close to anyone, a trait of his youth fire-hardened by years of demanding military service.

  Although, as with all things, there was an exception...

  Though he heard nothing, he knew someone called out to him, for he had lived this dream before. He turned to see two men walking towards him, a girl of no more than five years of age dashing between them, hopping through the tall grass with such vivacious energy that everything else might as well be statue-still. Her hands brushed the tops of flowers, a broad and natural smile on her face. He felt his own face mirroring hers. In that moment, he felt a love for her that he never felt before, one that no child of his own could ever hope to receive, nor any woman grown, and he knew he would live and die at her command.

  The two men spoke to him, but while their lips moved, all he heard was her laughter. He paid them no mind. He watched the girl run with her arms outstretched towards the fields below, then turn and run back, then once more toward the fields, over and over, the feeling of the wind at her hair and skirts the only thing that mattered to her.