by Ethan Spears
Mergau pursed her lips and turned away. “Those elves are monsters,” she spat. “The elves see us all the same, whether or not we worship Kenta. And they use arrows like cowards, not even fighting with the strength of their arms. Were Tana a few years older, old enough to be given his first sword, they would’ve cut him down as well. I can still hear their hideous laughter as they stood among the slaughter.” Her voice caught in her throat.
Jierta’s chest tightened and suddenly there were tears, the first in days. “You always take things into your own hands, always causing trouble for others. You must stop acting like a man.”
Mergau scoffed. “Were I a man, I’d not have had to fight tooth and nail just to learn to read.” She slapped the cover of one of Larna’s tomes for emphasis.
“And were you a man, we wouldn’t be speaking, for you would be dead." Mergau made a noise in her throat; she thought the idea nonsense. "You and Tana are the only two of your father’s line left. By bringing Tana back, you protected the legacy of both our families. Please, just mourn Larna’s passing and let it go.”
Mergau shook her head angrily. “You know what I must do. The men of my clan are dead. Who would give his spirit its final peace by sending his murderer on to their eternal duel? The men of your clan won’t, for they have no obligation to do so, and frankly they’ve done more than was expected of them by taking my clan in. So what, then? Must Larna wait five thousand years until his killer dies in his sleep?” She wiped her eyes with her ink-covered hands, leaving a trailing stain on her cheek. “You’ve been good to my brother and you bore him a good child, but now that he’s dead, we are no longer of the same family.”
“Don’t say that,” Jierta moaned, sitting up on her knees. “I beg you, not today. I’m not in the mood for your dramatic notions. I will always be a sister to you.”
“And that’s why I must avenge your husband. It’s the only gift I can give you for your hospitality and kinship.”
"You say that," Jierta said snappishly, "but are you avenging Larna, my husband, or Larna, your brother? If I don't want your gift, then is it truly for me or for you?"
Mergau frowned at her and returned swiftly to her seat, taking her quill back in hand. “I will learn everything I can about the elves that killed Larna, then I will hunt down the round-eared one and kill him.”
“You mean the one that let you escape?” Jierta shot back.
“He spared my life out of pity because I’m a woman. A mistake he’ll regret.” She scribbled something furiously, but Jierta doubted it was proper writing. “When I see Larna again, I can proudly tell him that he may rest easy.”
“Would he truly be pleased if you get yourself killed avenging him?”
“Says the woman who refused water in the scorching sun all day.”
“I'm serious. Larna always wanted you to be married and live a less troublesome life.”
“He would understand,” Mergau grumbled, though even she sounded unconvinced.
“Would he? Look at you. You’re beautiful. You could make someone a very happy husband.”
Mergau huffed dismissively but blushed nonetheless. It would be false modesty to deny. She had a fair amount of muscle and plenty of fat, strong arms, and broad hips. Her breasts were large and heavy, her skin the healthy dark green of olives, her tusks small and clean, her face was comely and her head shaved save for a long black braid that went down her back to the waist.
“You could be a man’s ideal,” Jierta continued. “You’re skilled in all the womanly arts and even some of the manly arts. You have no desire for things and I’ve never heard you whine. Do you understand how easy your life would be, how sought-after you would be, if you could just keep your temper and tongue in check?”
"Just stop it," said Mergau coolly. "We're not going to talk about me."
Jierta ignored her. “Larna wanted you to devote yourself to one great warrior who would accept such a fierce woman, and even I wish it for you. You are hard for a man to love, but there will surely be one out there for you. It might even have been Bresk—"
"Do not bring that name up with me!" Mergau shouted, finding herself on her feet. "I'm warning you—"
"No," Jierta interrupted, narrowing her eyes, "I'm warning you. If you learn what is in those books, then no man will be able to love you. You will become truly feared. It may be a path to vengeance, but it will also be a path to loneliness for the rest of your life. Can you do that to Larna? Can you destroy yourself, knowing it would devastate him?"
Mergau hesitated. “He would understand.”
“And what of me? My family? Our family? Do our wishes mean nothing to you?”
Mergau bristled. “You don’t even know what you want. I’m doing this for all of you, fulfilling the vengeance I know you all crave as much as I do. Can you deny that you wish to see Larna’s spirit appeased in the afterlife?”
Jierta frowned. “Even if I said no, you wouldn't believe me. You’re as stubborn as a ruk.”
If Mergau cared to be compared to slow-witted cattle, she didn’t show it. Instead, she hmm’d and went back to her writing.
Jierta slumped down again. Nothing she said seemed to have any effect, though she should have known better than to think it would. She had been trying for weeks to deter Mergau, but in her husband's sister she saw a determination the likes of which she couldn’t overcome, even had she the energy and emotional availability to try in earnest. As she was, she could only pick at the edges but not strike at the heart of it.
Defeated, she watched Mergau taking her notes and mumbling passages aloud with her hand outstretched, saw her carefully write out a line, then furiously scratch it out. Every few minutes she would become excited, then promptly fall to anger again, tearing up whole sections of her notes. Jierta’s eyes grew heavy, and she let them close.
A knock came at the door. Before Jierta could stand, the visitor let himself in, his shoes still on his feet. Larna surveyed the room as their daughter bounced happily on his shoulder. Jierta smiled fondly at him. He always forgets to remove his shoes, she thought. Larna didn’t notice her as he walked over to speak to Mergau.
He eyed the tomes on the desk. He looked at the words on the covers and became angry, pulling Mergau up by the arm. They began shouting at one another. Larna struck Mergau, and Mergau struck back. Jierta became frightened. She tried to call out for them to cease their quarreling, but they ignored her. She was too frightened to move to intervene.
Larna reached for his sword, his hand finding nothing at his side. No, Jierta though, that was lost in the forest where you died. As he searched frantically for his blade, Mergau raised both of her hands. Bright flames leaped from her fingertips and consumed Larna. His screams were piercing, but even wreathed in fire he lurched forward, wrapping Mergau in his arms. The fire flared and Mergau silently vanished into the flames.
Jierta awoke. She was still resting against the wall near the door, curled-up on the floor. Light from the newly-risen sun streamed through the gaps in the roof onto the empty table. Mergau and the books were gone.
Jierta stood in a panic. Could Mergau have left without saying her farewell? That was impossible. Margau was many crude things but inconsiderate was not one.
Then Jierta's eyes fell on the ink-stained wash basin. Well, most of the time, anyway.
“Never!” she heard shouted from outside, loud enough that she wouldn’t be surprised if the voice carried across the whole village. “Absolutely not! Your request is denied!” A door slammed just as Jierta pulled her own open.
“Please, Elder Arix,” Mergau called from outside of a hut, knocking on the door sharply. “If you will not teach me then no one will. I want to learn!” She adjusted the strap of a hide bag on her shoulder. A travel bag, Jierta realized, the kind used by hunters and scouts.
“This magic isn’t something a woman should wield,” the grizzled orc’s voice carried through the door. “Seeing magics and healing magics, perhaps, but those are not the kinds of mag
ics you’re after, are they? What is it you are trying to do? Return your brother from death? Burn his killer alive? Change fate?”
“I seek justice, and I may need all of those to obtain it! The elves think they can just butcher our people, that they can just loose an arrow into my brother’s throat and—” she choked on a great sob, angry tears bursting from her eyes.
“I am an old orc,” said Arix solemnly to the child that pressed her body against the entrance to his home. “I’ve seen many just like you, desperate for a chance to make things right but without the wherewithal to see the limit to their abilities. Hotheadedness has killed many youths who were stronger than you, many who were more eager than you, and many that were more intelligent than you. Without tranquility and a sense of purpose, you would have no hope.”
“I have a purpose,” she insisted.
“Not a pure purpose and certainly no tranquility. I will not contribute to your death, as that is all you will find if you pursue your brother’s spirit.”
“Would you turn a man away?” she demanded.
“If I deemed him unworthy, then yes, I’d turn him away. The path of magic is a journey that the young underestimate the dangers of.”
“So there’s nothing I can say to convince you, then?” Mergau’s voice had become frighteningly calm, a tone Jierta recognized. Her heart shivered. It was the kind of tone young warriors often used before going off to battles which they did expect to return from.
“Nothing you say will make a difference.” Arix said the words firmly, but Jierta could hear him wavering against what they both knew was coming.
“If I cannot avenge my brother,” Mergau whispered coldly, “then my life is without meaning. I’d rather it be over than live with the shame of it. I will lay at the bottom of a cliff before sundown.”
There followed a long silence. Jierta could feel her heart beating fiercely. Mergau stood defiantly facing the door, and it was only then that she noticed the crowd around her. There were angry and frightened stares and muttering and more than one mother pulled her children away.
After far too long, Elder Arix let out a deep, resigned sigh. “You younglings always take life so lightly. You throw your lives away at the slightest provocation.”
“Murdering my brother was not ‘slight provocation’!” she screamed, slamming her fist against the door.
“Dozens of others have said the same words of surrender to me,” he continued uninterrupted. “Either way, I have the blood of yet another on my hands.” The door opened and the withered old orc stood before her, his eyes pale and his face crinkled with despair. “If I must choose how you die, you kids always know I will always choose the path that prolongs your life the longest. I suppose I’ve become predictable with so many years.”
Jierta felt a flutter of mixed hope and despair.
“Then you will teach me?” Mergau's hand unconsciously clutched at the travel bag as if that very moment they might sprint off into the wilderness to train.
“No,” said the elder, inviting Mergau into his home with a gnarled hand. Jierta could see through the open doorway as he browsed a shelf of scrolls and the indignant Mergau attempted to sputter something at him in distress.
“Here,” he said, forcing a ragged piece of ruk-skin parchment into her hands before she could collect herself enough to argue. “If you’re ready to die, then follow this map. It will guide you to a home in the mountains. My body cannot take the rigors of complex magics anymore, but the crone who lives there will be able to help you. I suggest saying farewell to your friends and to your sister and nephew before you leave; even should you survive your training, I do not think anyone will be happy to see you upon your return.” He waved a hand at the crowd growing in both size and anger.
Arix turned his back on Mergau and shuffled through some items on his desk absent-mindedly. “Perhaps say goodbye to your brother and niece as well. Chances are they won't wish to see you again, either. We have nothing more to discuss. Leave.”
Jierta was shocked by his words. To suggest that the dead were ashamed of Mergau was an insult she would have thought too cruel and childish for the respectable elder. Mergau looked likewise surprised into speechlessness for a moment. Then she let it go, choosing instead to stare at the map in her hands, tightly bound with a length of wiry root. Inside that scroll, Mergau would find her destiny, Jierta knew, whether that destiny be avenging her brother or, more likely, prematurely joining him in the eternal beyond.
“I thank you for your help, elder,” Mergau said, bowing gracefully. Arix turned angrily and pushed her with both hands, sending her tumbling backward through the open door onto the hard dirt.
“I said ‘leave,’” said the elder. The look in his eyes was one of greatest anger. “If you’re going to die, then die! I will speak to the dead no further.” He slammed the door of his hut but opened it again almost immediately. “Idiot child!” he added, slamming the door again and locking it.
Mergau silently collected the map from the ground and dusted herself off. Most of the orcs dispersed, muttering darkly, though a few children watched her curiously as she carefully unfurled the map. Mergau scanned the horizon for the landmarks on the map and began to walk.
Jierta wanted to call out to her, to say something, anything to get her attention. She didn’t want her to go without some parting words. But she understood why Mergau had left the hut without rousing her, because now, watching Mergau’s receding back as she marched out of the ring of huts, Jierta was at a loss as to what she could possibly say.
Chapter 3
Fire and Garlic
Aoden awoke in a pool of sweat.
The night offered little respite from the summer heat and even with the sun hugging the horizon, the temperature rose quickly. He left his bed nude—a habit formed from many such summers—and heard the earliest risers on the other side of the canvas preparing breakfast and gathering their equipment for morning drills.
He performed his pre-dawn stretches. He had to manage a delicate balance of muscle, keeping his arms and chest wiry to cut down on his overall weight, but by needs maintained large thighs and taut buttocks as his half-elf biology cost him dearly compared to true elves in terms of speed and stamina. He achieved and maintained this balance via a precise exercise regimen perfected through decades of trial-and-error. That, and a careful diet (also self-discovered, as the elves had little need for keeping records on half-elf health requirements), the downside of which was extra stiffness in his body when he awoke.
Once he felt limber enough, he dressed lightly, donning the thinnest cloth he owned before cramming his already-sweat-soaked body into his officer’s leathers. Being a solid set of armor, it didn’t breathe worth a damn, but at least no marches or combat were planned for the day to exacerbate the discomfort. He shaved carelessly and quickly, placed the command crest on his head, gave himself a cursory once-over in the mirror, and went outside.
Of the four elves already up and about, only one looked up when the Commander left his tent, and he offered no nod or other sign of recognition before returning to cooking breakfast over the fire pit. While duty dictated he watch over his men’s activities whenever his lieutenant wasn’t up, there wasn’t much for him to do. The elves would go about their work flawlessly and even were he to find a problem, his criticism would fall on deaf ears. Aoden ambled around the camp offering words that were more acknowledgments of work being done rather than praise or condemnation.
As more elves awoke, they greeted each other with calls and jokes, though not one word was directed towards Aoden. Only the occasional glance was thrown his way accompanied by blank faces or a curled lip. When Aoden passed groups of talking soldiers, even the loudest of conversations fell to whispering or petered out altogether.
Aoden noticed all these things, but they did not faze him. He continued offering the occasional word or nod despite all this, perhaps even in spite of it, though he wasn’t sure which it was anymore. He acted as if nothing was
amiss; indeed, in his experience, nothing was amiss. His morning would only be strange if it started any other way.
The cook had just begun calling the squad to breakfast when Aoden spotted the messenger heading towards his camp. There was no mistaking his destination; his eyes were locked onto Aoden’s blond hair like a beacon. Aoden frowned as he watched the messenger approach, hoping he would turn off toward some other camp, then sighed inwardly. He looked toward his squad, distracted by their meal and blind to their commander. He took the opportunity to slip beyond a stand of trees that hid the camp from view, maintaining eye contact with the messenger as he went.
“Archonite Valdon requests your presence,” the messenger said before he had even come to a complete stop.
“That time already, is it?” Aoden mumbled, more to himself than the messenger. “Of course he sends during breakfast. He always aims for the worst time.” He turned to see if the squad had noticed his absence. “I trust you know what to do with my things?”
The messenger shook his head. “The Archonite merely stated that he wished to see you. I have no information other than that.”
“Don’t give me the runaround,” Aoden snapped. “We both know why you’re here. Hell,” he added, examining the messenger’s face, “I’m half certain you’ve delivered this news to me before. Regardless, you’ll find everything packed and ready to go. I need my things to be given to someone who will take care of them, so ensure it all makes it to provisioning. Is that understood?” The messenger clearly didn’t like the implications of the order but gave a sharp nod. “I have everything listed and will remember your face if anything goes missing,” Aoden warned, sweeping past the messenger, “so make sure it doesn’t.”
