Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  The Commander let his mind wander as he followed the two that were indifferent to his presence. Deep inside simmered a hatred for them, but he had long since grown used to ignoring the feeling. He kept pace, feeling nothing but the chill wind.

  Watchmen emerged as they wended their way out of town. They observed the marching trio in silence, hands firmly on their bows. Their attention, however, swiftly returned to the town—the broken, abandoned town—which they eyed with an intensity one would expect of an enemy encampment. The Commander knew they feared it, though few elves would ever admit such a thing. They feared the wrath that it represented and the pain that had transpired, but they also feared that humans might still be living within the dilapidated domiciles. Their fear was unreasonable, but the Commander had grown used to that, too.

  The trappings of the camp slunk into view. Talk and laughter carried far in the crisp morning air. Easily a hundred soldiers were drilling and loitering, though there were barely a dozen tents in view, most having been pitched in the forest further east.

  The tents themselves were simple: four long wooden poles, sectioned into thirds for folding, attached to one another at a five-point joint to form a pyramid shape. A fifth pole, solid and without the sections, connected from the joint to the ground where it was then pressed into the earth. Over the top was thrown a thick canvas, treated to keep the rain from damaging it. Four stakes were then hammered through hoops at the four corners, giving a basic shelter tall enough for most elves to stand in, though naturally, he would have to hunch over inside. He recalled early in his military career how he had once left the stakes shallow, the extra hand or two of space allowing him to stand. However, in the night one of his three tentmates rolled into the support and brought the whole thing down on top of them.

  “Saliel,” a dangerous voice called. A figure approached and, while of a higher rank, neither the Commander nor the two scouts saluted.

  “Archonite Valdon,” he said instead. Valdon stood sixteen hands tall, a middling height for an elf, though against Saliel’s eighteen-and-a-half he had to tilt his head back to stare Saliel in the eye.

  “Skip the pleasantries,” Valdon said, unceremoniously turning and marching off, obviously expecting the Commander to follow him towards an old human watchtower that had recently been reinforced with makeshift wooden buttresses. “All the other patrols have reported in. You try our patience and waste the envoy’s time.”

  “Envoy?” Saliel said, surprised. It was the first he had heard of an envoy.

  “Just get in there,” the Archonite snapped, pointing the much taller commander towards the tower door. He did not wait to see if his orders were complied with; he swiftly turned about to shout orders at a group of warriors practicing with their bows.

  The tall elf watched the Archonite trot away. The camp was fully roused and most had already eaten and put out their cook fires, but a smokiness still clung to the area. Archon Arisil must have moved into the tower within the past few hours: instead of the tower being at the center of the camp, it sat close to the western edge, on the outskirts of Handock itself. The rest of the day would revolve around the many squads of the battalion repositioning their camps to correct this issue.

  He turned his attention to the tower. It looked unsteady even with the additional support of the buttresses, the top half jutting out to a dangerous degree and enough stones missing from the face that the inside would be nearly as well-lit as the outside at midday. Smoke issued from the various missing tiles and bricks, giving it the appearance of a great gray tree. He gave the door a single sharp knock.

  “Enter,” commanded a voice from within.

  The room was filled with smoke and the pungent smell of tobacco. He wrinkled his nose and saw the envoy, a halfling of advanced years, sitting cross-legged on a stool silhouetted against a large fire. Eight elves stood about with their shining armor and sharpened weapons, eyes keen and alert. The halfling, on the other hand, sat relaxed and puffed idly at his pipe, the top buttons of his yellow shirt and green vest open against the heat of the room, his pant legs rolled up to the knee and his feet bare. He smiled gently at the elf’s entrance as if his tardiness was of little consequence.

  “Saliel, my boy,” the halfling said, his tongue working around his pipe. He spoke Krik, a language of human origins favored by the halflings. “It seems we have the honor of one another’s company yet again.”

  Saliel nodded stiffly and answered in the diction and cadence that were standard for the envoy’s southern family. “A vintage morning, master Benderbury. I will be your mouth. And may I add that it is a pleasant surprise to see you once again.”

  The halfling rolled his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other and squinted. “Usually hearing your elfling tongue affect a Susian accent is the highlight of my visits, but you seem particularly piqued this fine morning. I hope it’s not from my presence.”

  Saliel winced but replied unhurriedly. “I have not had the most pleasant of mornings, and it seems likely that it is only going to get worse. I hope you can recognize my sincerity when I say I am happy to see you again and welcome you warmly but wish it were on a day where I was feeling more agreeable.”

  Benderbury nodded understanding. Saliel spoke wooden formality and didn’t smile welcomingly, but the halfling knew it was due to his superiors watching from across the room rather than any true neutrality.

  The halfling sucked on his pipe and thought of something. “Did I ever tell you that I grew up with a half-elf like yourself?” he offered, an expression of wry mirth on his face.

  Saliel’s eyebrow wormed the tiniest fraction upwards. “You’ve never mentioned that, no.”

  “It’s how I recognized you for a half-elf when you first translated for me,” Benderbury continued. “I could tell you by your ears: lobes and length, the same as he. I’d swear you even had the same height and face, though that may just be nostalgia playing tricks on the mind.”

  “Elves are rarely seen in the southern lands. He must have been something of a spectacle.” The halfling nodded in agreement, pleased at Saliel’s usual display of well-traveled knowledge. “I am always interested in other half-elves. One day, with any luck, I will be able to meet this friend of yours.”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” the halfling said bluntly. His smile remained, but his earth-colored eyes revealed a hint of sadness. “He was on the wrong side of Kenta’s wrath.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Saliel, folding his hands in the halfling form of apology. “I did not wish to broach a painful subject.”

  Benderbury waved away his words. “On the contrary, I’ve naught but fond memories of him. Think nothing of it. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to remind you that there are others like you out there, many fondly thought of.”

  The edge of Saliel’s mouth twitched upwards. “Thank you for sharing.” The subtle halfling-style approval of the half-elf did not go unnoticed by Saliel and threatened to bring a grin to his face, but just as quickly, he suppressed it and turned to the officer across the table.

  “I have completed the customary exchange of pleasantries,” he barked in Elvish. “What does the Archon wish of me?”

  Archon Arisil was old even by elven standards, his cracked face and long-grayed hair a rarity among elves. He sat tall and straight behind a table in a solid stone chair, a remnant of the tower that hinted at its importance. The table itself was long and wide with four tiny, pivoting brass mechanisms perfectly spaced to pin down a standard-sized tactical map. The maps themselves were crackling fuel in the fire.

  “Just translate,” came the impatient reply, the tongue of the ancient elf torpid with age. “Ask the half-man what he wants.”

  “What brings you to our camp?” Saliel asked the halfling, sliding comfortably back into Krik.

  “Our high council thought it prudent to find out what plans the elves have in place for the coming end of the Restraint,” the halfling said briskly—suddenly, like Saliel, all business.
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  “He wishes to know what plans we have to defend ourselves from the impending invasion.”

  “What use could the half-men make of such information?” the Archon rumbled.

  The half-elf sighed, for the answer was obvious, but translated as duty dictated. “Our esteemed Archon wishes to know why you are requesting this information, and what you mean to make of it?”

  “Quite simply, we think it best if we combine our efforts to hold off the orcs. We don’t want what happened to the humans to happen to us, a scenario that seems increasingly likely with Kenta’s rise in power.”

  Saliel grimaced. Kenta, God of Murder, Father of Orcs, Dog of the Gods; no matter what he was called, the truth was more savage. Though his ravaging of the human kingdom—‘the Fury,’ people called it—was sanctioned by the gods, even they were appalled by the pogrom that followed loosing Kenta upon Nilriel. The divine law crafted by the gods gave him twenty days, and he used them well, calling up hidden reserves of his divine power to fuel the bloodlust of his orcish subjects. By the time his fury subsided, the kingdom of man—which, if the gods were to be believed, they merely wanted to frighten back to righteousness—was gone and its people scattered.

  “‘A year of restraint for every day free of it,’” Benderbury quoted. “So the gods decreed and so it is understood, though with how little preparation I've seen for that inevitability, I swear your archons need a math lesson on the matter. Twenty days means twenty years and we’ve already seen eighteen. Regardless, with all the cults and half-mad survivors out there giving Kenta their cowardly obeisance in exchange for a mercy I doubt he would offer, his power is likely beyond even what it was eighteen years ago when he only commanded the worship of the orcs. When the Restraint ends, Kenta will come again, probably that very day. Even the elves won’t survive the end of the Restraint alone.”

  Saliel nodded darkly before turning to the Archon. “He wishes for us to concert our army with his nation’s own for the coming end of the Restraint. He believes our combined forces would act as an improved barrier against attack than they would individually, given Kenta’s newfound power.”

  Several of the elves snorted derisively. The Archon’s eyes widened. “Surely he doesn’t think the elven armies would ever require the addition of thrown sticks and stones to bolster our bows and arrows?”

  To keep himself from sighing again, Saliel cleared his throat before speaking. “The Archon does not see a tactical benefit to that idea. He is of the opinion that we are prepared enough for whatever may come.”

  The halfling leaned forward, meeting the Archon’s eye, which Saliel took to mean he should prepare to translate on the fly. “I know elves are a stubborn people, and I know they’re strong and as versed in battle as they are in music, but they’re not numerous. They’re great warriors and I freely admit the defense of these lands requires the elves, but if you simply throw yourselves against the orcs—an equally skilled but more numerous opponent—without the assistance of the other races, I fear we may all go the way of the humans; our societies broken, our peoples scattered, forsaken by our gods, and in constant fear for our lives. If the elves break before the halflings do, then we’re all doomed.”

  The Archon puffed up. “He thinks we elves would succumb to the orcs? Every elven warrior is equal to a hundred orcs. Every archon is equal to a hundred elven warriors. Does he dare insult us by suggesting we would collapse under the pressure of such a lesser people?”

  “The Archon suggests that we are not so weak as to succumb to the orcs.”

  “Well, he’s mistaken,” said the halfling simply, sitting back. “Ten thousand elves will hardly be a match for a million orcs empowered by their god. Kenta’s second Fury will dwarf his first and if the elves have the hubris to think that they’ll survive when the humans with their many fortress cities did not, they’re only preparing themselves for a terrible shock.”

  Saliel relayed the message, the Archon’s face turning redder as he spoke. When he was done, the Archon slammed his fist on the arm of his chair.

  “The request is declined and this meeting is over,” the Archon barked.

  “If I may—” Saliel began.

  “I have advisors to advise,” warned the Archon, “and translators to translate. We are declining their request.”

  “What reason should I give, Archon?”

  “I do not care. We do not owe them an explanation. The ratmen should be grateful we even allowed for this meeting.”

  Saliel couldn't restrain his sigh this time as he turned to the halfling, who already looked unhappy.

  “I know what dismissal sounds like,” Benderbury said before Saliel could inform him. “The council will be upset that I’m unable to bring back any good news from this meeting, but I told them such would be the result.”

  “I really am sorry that we cannot be of help to the halflings.”

  “I know you are, but you have nothing to apologize for. Please thank your superiors for their time.” He jumped down from his tall stool and brushed past Saliel in the crowded room. He retrieved his tiny red hat from a guard and placed it firmly upon his silver hair.

  “He thanks you for your time, Archon,” Saliel said to the glaring old elf.

  “That aside,” the Archon said, “I have orders for you, Saliel. Think on them next time you decide to tarry on patrol.”

  Saliel knew this conversation was not going to end in a pleasant way.

  “Excuse me,” piped the envoy once more. All the elves in the room turned angry eyes on the halfling. He seemed to take no notice of it. “Would it be possible to borrow your translator until I leave the camp?”

  “He wishes to borrow me until he leaves,” Saliel informed his superior, incredulous despite himself. The Archon flicked his wrist in dismissal.

  “Great,” chimed the diminutive diplomat. “I won’t take too long so you can return to your duties shortly.”

  Moments later, Saliel found himself outside with the halfling, walking by his side, the newly risen sun casting long shadows before them. He had a full nine hands over the halfling and had to reduce his pace by half to match speed.

  “As a diplomat,” said Saliel tentatively, his tone more casual now that he was out from under the Archon's gaze, “I’m sure you know how grave an insult speaking after you’ve been excused is in elven society.”

  The halfling nodded, his face looking substantially less jolly than it had been in the watchtower. “I’m well aware, though I doubt there was any other way for me to deliver a proper insult, as I’m sure you would take the liberty of not translating it. Speaking of, has the Archon not been educated on the fact that racial slurs are typically frowned upon in civil affairs?”

  “You understood that, did you?”

  “Aye. I may not know much Elvish, but I at least know what ‘ratmen’ sounds like. You would think he would at least have the courtesy to watch his language in front of me, but no, all those”—he shot a look at his tall companion—“full-blooded elves think that everyone is so simple and beneath their contempt. They never consider that we may be able to glean some meaning from their pompous string of insults. I’m sure that you’re familiar with all that.”

  “I wouldn’t know what you mean,” the half-elf said.

  “Deny it if you want, but I can tell you’re not given respect. I can tell by the way you stand and walk; you may be taller than they are, but you don’t hold yourself as tall. Honestly, I’ve been to dozens of these futile meetings already. They’re not so much negotiations as they are two races tolerating each other’s presence for an hour. I tried being polite, I tried being brusque, I tried being rude, but nothing gets through. They march around with their chests puffed out like the self-important—” he stopped walking and took a deep breath. “I apologize. I do go on, don’t I?”

  “Oh, it’s no issue. I don’t get a lot of friendly conversation around here.”

  Benderbury smiled in commiseration. “I’m both gladdened that you feel comfor
table admitting that to me and saddened by the inevitable truth of it.” The halfling removed the pipe from his mouth and offered his free hand. “Cofus Benderbury.”

  Saliel looked puzzled. They had already made introductions before, but something about the halfling’s tone made it feel less official and more personal.

  “Aoden Halfelven,” he responded slowly, realizing belatedly that the halfling was doing him an honor according to halfling tradition by declaring his own name first.

  Now it was Benderbury’s turn to look puzzled. “Oh dear,” he muttered, “and I’ve been calling you ‘Saliel’ this whole time and you’ve been too polite to correct me. Terribly embarrassing.”

  “Ah, no,” Aoden said swiftly to help the halfling save face. “That’s merely how you say ‘Halfelven’ in the Elven tongue.”

  The halfling returned the pipe to his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. “Liel does mean ‘elf,’ doesn’t it?” he mumbled. "Could have sworn 'half' was 'kan,' though."

  "It's a dialect thing," Aoden assured him.

  "I didn't even think elves had dialects, what with them all being so homogenous." He unconsciously prepared more tobacco for his pipe. "And ‘Kanliel’ doesn't have the same ring to it, anyway. Something tells me ‘Halfelven’ isn’t your birth name.”

  “I took it for myself. When I lived with humans, it was a good name that I could speak proudly.”

  “I suppose that has changed somewhat for you,” Cofus offered, teasing.

  “Not to sound ungrateful for getting me out of there, but why did you ask for me to escort you?”

  The halfling looked up at him. “You remind me of my old half-elf friend Jorgin. Indulge an old halfling for a bit, if you would. I’m sure anything is better than dealing with the military, elven or otherwise. I’ve seen how the elves treat ones like you, ones not having full elven heritage, and it makes me hesitant to have anything to do with them. I’m fine with whatever foul language they throw at me—that only bothers me on principle—but they should not be so willing to discard their own. However, as a diplomat, I go where I’m most needed and, as of a few moments ago, that was in front of Archon Arisil. Hopefully next time I will be sent somewhere with a higher chance of success, like to a quarry where I can negotiate with rocks.” He glanced at Aoden and noted, “You look uncomfortable, my boy. I hope I’ve not offended you in some way.”