Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  “You’re barely any older than I am,” Mergau huffed. Since recovering from the sprite’s possession, the crone looked much younger. Without all the gray hairs and sagging skin, she now looked like she was only five years older than Mergau, if that.

  The crone ignored the complaint. “If you want to know whether you kill the elf, then you will have to study, train, and find out for yourself. The only things you need to know are what I tell you, understand?”

  “I do,” said Mergau, deciding to just agree to this turn of events rather than annoy the crone with too many questions.

  “My name is Ezma. I am of no clan. Not anymore. You shall call me mistress.”

  “Yes, mustruss,” said Mergau, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. It didn’t sound like an Orcish word.

  “Good. I prefer the times when you’re obedient. Gods know there will be plenty of times when you won’t be.” She opened the book in her hands to a seemingly random page and turned it to face Mergau, pointing at a drawing at the top. There was a single horizontal line. A quarter of the way across the page, it split in two. Each of those branches then split again. As the lines moved toward the right side of the page, they split over and over with many branches fading off or ending with an X. Only one such split reached the far end of the page where it ended in a golden circle.

  “The future is certain but changeable,” she said. “Events are bound to happen but can be stopped.” She paused and eyed Mergau. “You were destined to come here and to be taught by me, but if you knew that was your destiny, you could’ve chosen otherwise. Do you understand?”

  Mergau wondered for a moment, looking at the picture. She examined it for a long time, so long that she felt it would be rude to stay quiet any longer. “I think I do,” she said. “Is that why you won’t tell me if I kill the elf?”

  “Stay focused,” said the crone, snapping the book shut. “Your answer is good, but not good enough. You must understand fully. If you only think you understand, you do not understand. That is my second lesson.”

  Ezma raised her hand and released the book, putting it on some unseen shelf, vanishing it in the air. “Magic is difficult to learn, and impossible for many, though it will not be so for you. This I have seen. Before you begin with even the simplest of spells, I have much work to do.” She took in Mergau’s appearance, walking around her and tapping and poking Mergau’s body as she spoke. “Fat may be appealing to dull orc men, but one wants a lean body to help focus the magic, and a strong body to contain it. Our training begins with a few weeks of exercise. That should get you into the proper shape, after which we can focus on some basic channeling.”

  “Weeks?” Mergau squirmed in her place. “How long will this take?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ezma said, her eyes narrowed, “I was under the impression you came here seeking to learn magic, not to count or cook. Was I mistaken?”

  “No, musstruss,” said Mergau, shaking her head frantically.

  “Then you will remain in my care for as many months or years as I require you.”

  Mergau nodded her head, her face resolute. “Yes, musstruss. No matter how long it takes, so long as I learn all I can from you.”

  One corner of the crone's mouth twisted upward as if she found the comment funny. “Good, because I’m not keen on children’s crying. Now get up. We start immediately.”

  Mergau stood excitedly. “Yes, muss—” then swayed and fell.

  “Third lesson,” said the crone, extending three fingers. “If you overexert yourself with your magic, you will die. You haven’t eaten in days, yet you want to start training? Foolishness. We eat and rest first. We can begin tomorrow.”

  Mergau nodded but couldn’t help feeling like she was being teased. Regardless, she was feeling happier than she had in days, her heart bursting over the great luck she had.

  No, not luck. It wasn’t luck that brought her here. It was just as the musstruss had said. It was destiny.

  Chapter 5

  Magic and Awe

  Thousands of elves stirred in the fields.

  The spot where Archon Keenas was to perform his weapons demonstration had been supplied with raised wooden benches laid out in concentric circles like an impromptu amphitheater. The seats, though expertly constructed, were put together in a manner that was rough for the meticulous elves, suggesting the builders had little time for preparation. Some soldiers were still returning from patrols and word had spread to several nearby battalions resulting in a steady stream of people flowing into the makeshift theater. There were even some civilians mixed in with the soldiers.

  Aoden and his squad had been there for several hours already. The early afternoon sun that hung over the scene when they arrived was making its way ever westwards, threatening dusk without any appearance from the Archon. The breathless atmosphere had long since fled as the event turned into something of a social gathering. The crowd chattered and laughed and waited, though the elves respectfully stayed within the rows of benches rather than venturing into the center.

  Aoden listened patiently. Had he been anyone else, he would have considered Dorim a pest, what with his continuous string of questions about the human military. The Lieutenant was taking full advantage of the lax atmosphere to drill the half-elf for whatever little nuggets of information he could think of asking for, which Aoden relayed as best he could remember. He was used to being generally shunned by his underlings and was just happy to have someone to talk to for once.

  Dorim was all over the spectrum with his questions, but he seemed especially interested in the humans’ focus on cavalry tactics and the defense of fortified cities, both of which were nonexistent in elven society. A few of the other elves listened with mild interest; even with their careers averaging over a hundred years, their nation’s long peace with the humans meant they had likely never fought a mounted foe and certainly never stormed a city.

  “I was a captain of a platoon of mounted strike troops,” Aoden was saying. “A platoon is four ranks of fifty men,” he added for their benefit, “and a captain is something like a commander, perhaps a bit higher, but not as high as an archonite.”

  “I know that already,” said Dorim impatiently.

  “That clarification wasn’t for you,” the commander said, gesturing to another elf who was focused on the conversation. “Anyway, the job of strike troops is to move swiftly into the enemy’s vulnerable points and do as much damage as possible: supply lines, medical stations, guard posts, patrol routes, under-defended towns, etcetera. We were raiders, essentially. Sometimes we would have the support of horsemen or archers, but not often. We weren’t fighting full head-on battles—or rather we weren’t supposed to, but sometimes bad information slipped through and our planned hit-and-run devolved into melee.”

  “So you were a forward unit? Then you must have fought on horses.” Dorim seemed childishly delighted with the idea.

  “We attacked on foot,” Aoden corrected, which seemed to dampen Dorim’s enthusiasm. “We typically got to our target on horses for speed’s sake, but horses gave no element of surprise; too loud, too hard to give precise commands to, and required the troops to be well-trained in controlling the animal during combat. At that point, we might as well be cavalry. No, we usually tied them up beforehand if we intended to use them to retreat, or occasionally sent them off to return to camp on their own, though some horses were lost that way. We would then sneak in on foot and launch a surprise attack. It was a highly effective if dangerous strategy.”

  “Against another nation, maybe,” Dorim said. “You only fought humans, though. The kingdom had bandits, pirates, that small civil war in Watsa, the raiders in Nuutson that came in from Gardesh—even though the Triarchs couldn’t prove it—and maybe one or two other skirmishes. The last century was almost exclusively with smaller groups that didn’t have proper supply lines or other hot points your unit would excel at hitting.”

  Aoden sat back. “It sounds like you know the kingdom’s military history bett
er than I do.”

  “It’s something of a hobby of mine,” Dorim confirmed with a grin.

  “I suppose you have a point,” Aoden said thoughtfully. “The lizardfolk keep to themselves, there are few dwarves left in Nilriel, and the orcs are over the mountains in Astran; the kingdom hadn’t had a real war in well over a century. That being said, my strike troops and I still had lots of work to keep us busy. Bandit camps and caches were common, and we saw plenty of fighting during the civil unrest is Watsa, though we had nothing to do with the pirates or raiders. I was stationed a few stretches south of Castle Whent in southern Watsa and the only foreign land in those seas is Telmari.”

  “Right, and they’re not raiding anybody,” Dorim said. “Bunch of scholars, merchants, and inventors. No stomach for war. Too bad, I was hoping you’d seen some naval warfare as well.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘too bad.’ We did a lot of trading with Telmari. Last thing we would want is open warfare. I rather wish the elves traded with them. Clothes made of Telmarine silk are marvelous things.”

  “I’ve no interest in your silk underwear. Rather, you said you were a captain. I never understood how promotions worked. Apparently, they didn’t have a mastery board.” He lifted the pitch of his voice just enough to suggest a question.

  “They didn’t. I just proved I’d be a good captain through action and leadership and my superiors suggested to their superiors that I should be promoted. Then they promoted me, simple as that. No need for the talent show like the elves have. Though it was easier with the humans, to be honest, what with having many years of experience and training but still having the strength and vitality of their youngest soldiers, if not more. Recall that even the highest ranking in the army were only fifty or sixty years old, and by the time I left I was about that age.”

  Dorim rubbed his chin. “It’s astounding they could get anything done with children at their head, much less be the force to be reckoned with that they were. That’s what I liked about their military: they didn’t have the speed of skill of elves but were more than a match for our strength based on their numbers, tactics, and style. That says a lot about them. Just plain impressive.”

  Aoden chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard them praised by an elf.”

  “Most elves don’t appreciate a challenge. They like winning their fights easy. Not me, though. How can you push yourself to your best when you have no worthy obstacle in your path to overcome?”

  Aoden bridled. “The human military had a long and rich history. It wasn’t just an obstacle for the elves to overcome.”

  “Don’t be naïve,” Dorim said. “Ours should be the standalone force in the land, drawing in the best, brightest, and strongest. That’s why I want to blend superior human tactics with superior elven skill; so we wouldn’t need to rely on other nations. A nation is stronger without having to worry about their neighbors poking through their homes while they’re at war.”

  Dorim frowned as Aoden shook his head. “That fails to take into account the big picture. Who would the elves fight, exactly? There are four other continents out there, three of which are more unified than ours has probably ever been. If an entire continent’s armies were to move against our own, would the elves alone be able to stand against them?”

  “A dream scenario,” said Dorim, waving a hand dismissively.

  “Isn’t that exactly what happened with the orcs of Astran during the Fury? And what’s going to happen again in less than two years?”

  “The orcs are a disorganized band of brutes at best, and their population in Astran is estimated no more than a few million. Any army from one of the other continents would be a greater threat, and good luck getting enough boats to move a continent’s army. Besides, we could unify Nilriel through force if we so desired.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Aoden. “Which is why the elves are currently enjoying the continuation of this great, unified golden age, right? That’s why we’re currently celebrating the second millennial anniversary of our dominance over the humans and halflings. Or wait, has that happened yet? That might have been a mad dream I had.”

  “You are a buzzkill, sir,” Dorim said, though he flashed a toothy grin.

  “Just trying to keep perspective is all.”

  One of the elves from the squad stood to get water and offered to fill their waterskins on the way. Aoden accepted gratefully. Though the makeshift stadium was mostly shaded by trees, it was still summer. His elves had long ago removed their armor and those that hadn’t gone completely topless were sitting in sweaty undershirts. He always thought elf sweat had a mossy smell to it, but with all the gathered soldiers he could practically taste it on the air.

  Aoden used the lull in conversation to observe his squad. Even after forty years of exposure, he had the damnedest time differentiating elves. They were an insular bunch, rarely marrying outside their home villages and cities, yet still somehow managing to all look the same, blending together regardless of region. All his men had unadorned straight brown hair that fell somewhere between the top of the shoulder and the elbow, mostly darker, some lighter, but not different enough to matter when in the shade or at a distance. He hadn’t checked, but he was sure more than half had brown eyes as well, maybe two or three greens, possibly a rare black. Dorim was as plain as any other elf in the squad. The lieutenant’s insignias on his gloves were his saving grace; were he to don a soldier’s uniform, Aoden wasn’t sure he could pick him out from the others.

  Perhaps that was a bit unfair. Elven features didn’t differ to the extent that humans’ did, but even an untrained eye could pick out details if careful enough. Dorim had a face slightly wider than the typical elf, though he was nowhere near Aoden in terms of overall broadness. His jaw hung at a shallower angle and his bottom lip had an extra plumpness to it. His eyebrows were also a bit bushier than was normal, and his ears drooped ever so slightly. That was what Aoden had to work with when recognizing Dorim or any other elf: features that were almost, but not quite, the elven norm.

  As for the rest, he didn’t know them well enough or have studied their faces for long enough to differentiate them at all. They would probably remain a homogenous sea of faces to him for a few weeks. Except for the scout, of course. He didn’t know the scout’s name, but he could tell who the scout was immediately. Scouts had their own insignia, sure, but what really gave them away was that indefinable sharpness they always had, as if they were seeing and hearing more than those around them, something about their training that Aoden had never looked into. They also tended to be popular among their squad and a rich source of general knowledge as well, but Aoden was unsure if that was a result of the training or a prerequisite.

  Masters of camouflage, ambush, archery, endurance running, and with eyes and ears honed by mysterious training methods, they were typically the top-performing soldier in any squad. Since they were so valuable, scouts were rarely promoted out of their scouting duties save for a handful of trainers. They were required to flee if the squad was in danger of annihilation, using their superior speed and stealth to make sure word of the squad’s destruction made it to their archonite. As a result, they tended to be older than their commanders. This scout was maybe two hundred years old, still older than Aoden but extremely young by scout standards, though he looked no less sharp or capable because of it.

  “What do you suppose Keenas does all day, anyway?” Aoden wondered aloud, his thoughts having slid from scouts to archons.

  “Probably not much different from you or me,” Dorim offered. “I mean, archons are elves, just like us.”

  Aoden shrugged. “I don’t know. I sometimes forget what it’s like not having to command a squad and archons are pretty hands-off with their battalions, so he probably has plenty of spare time. I assume he at least practices his arts a bit.”

  “Well, that goes without saying. Swinging swords, shooting bows, and, uh, whatever it is you do to practice with magic.”

  Aoden shrugged. “I
wouldn’t know. I couldn’t cast a spell to save my life.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Maybe be hobnobs with other masters, grandmasters, and archons,” Aoden continued, craning his neck towards the tent that supposedly held the subject of their conversation. “It must be hard to have true friends when everyone looks up to you.” Aoden recalled Cofus saying something to that effect some weeks ago.

  “Maybe, but he also has money and free time, so I think he’ll be fine.” Dorim chuckled to himself. “I just had a thought: a members-only club for archons, with matching jackets even.”

  “Okay,” Aoden said, twisting in his seat to fully face his lieutenant, “there’s no way you just made a passing reference to human social clubs. That’s a pretty obscure piece of knowledge, even for you.”

  “Believe it or not, there are a few clubs like that among the upper crust of the elves,” Dorim said. “The men in my family belong to one that meets—”

  Aoden interrupted. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it is some club centered on humans in some form or another.”

  Dorim’s brow knitted. “What, is it that obvious?”

  “I refuse to acknowledge that as a serious question.” He turned back towards the ring. “Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a human stuffed and mounted at home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Commander,” said the Lieutenant. “I’d hardly have room for the thing.”

  An air-shattering strike of a bell reverberated through the ring. “About time,” said one of the elves behind the commanding pair. “I thought we’d be sitting here all night.”

  “Much like an archon to do things on his own time,” Dorim said, adding a what-can-you-do motion with his hand.

  Aoden leaned forward, eager to see what was going to happen, when a hand tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to turn. A messenger was standing over him, holding a folded paper out to him. He took it reluctantly, at which point the messenger dashed away without a word. All at once, the entire squad was keenly interested in their commander’s business.