Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  Mergau knew the letters well enough now that she didn’t need the sheet, but she still struggled with piecing words together from the disparate noises. These books were still the first batch and Ezma made it clear that there were more in her other room, many of which were about magic, and Mergau was going to have to read them all before she could move on to the good stuff.

  And it would be a lot easier without the damn dog on the cover smiling up at her. “I hate dog,” she told it, putting it aside. But she was doing no better with the other books. The fox’s story—which lacked pictures so she just imagined that foxes were like dogs—had some longer words in it that she struggled with, but she knew they were mostly about hunting and hiding. And she wasn’t even sure how to pronounce the name of the creature from the third book. It was easily the longest word in any of the three books. The pictures suggested it was a lizard that sometimes lived in water and would come onto land to hunt deer, but the deer would always trick him into not eating them so he ended up starving to death. She would have told the deer to shut up in its stupid deer language then dragged it back to the water to eat, but then again, she wasn’t a however-it’s-pronounced.

  Ezma, meanwhile, was writing letters. Every day after dinner, while Mergau stared at her books before going to sleep, Ezma would pull out some loose parchment and write out lengthy letters. Some were in Orcish, some were in Krik, and some were in languages that Mergau did not recognize. Ezma did not let her examine the letters too closely, covering the paper as she wrote and shooing Mergau when she got too close. When Ezma finished, she would take them outside. When she returned a few minutes later, the letters were gone. Mergau was curious what happened to them, but got a sharp rebuke when she first asked and didn’t try again.

  When Ezma was gone with the letters, it reminded Mergau of a story she’d heard as a child, the one about the warlock’s understudy, who would wait for his master to leave then tinker with the master’s magic wands and staves, trying to learn their magic. The story ended with the understudy using an artifact his master specifically forbade him from touching, which winds up devouring his soul. It was supposed to be a tale about not meddling in things you don’t understand, but Mergau always thought it would be fun to have free reign in the study of a powerful witch. Now, by the strange turns of fate, that happened every day. Of course, there was nothing of Ezma’s in the hut except for what she wanted to be there. Even the little stool and table she used to write sat in the other room until she needed them. What sort of havoc could Mergau cause even if she wanted to? Maybe one day she’d learn the key to unlocking the other room. The thought excited her.

  “Mergau,” said Ezma from over her letters, placing her quill to the side and standing up. Mergau—who was lying on her stomach by the fire pit, her head resting in her hands, kicking her feet in the air as she read a book on the ground in front of her—looked up to find Ezma holding something that shone yellow in her hands. It was emitting a rhythmic clicking noise. She flipped one side open like a little door and looked inside, then closed it again, vanishing it to the other room before Mergau could get a good look at it. “I’ll be a bit longer than usual this evening. I need to handle something. It might get a bit noisy, but don’t mind that. Whatever you hear, do not open the door, understood?”

  “Mistress?” said Mergau, not knowing how to phrase her curiosity in Krik, so she wore it plain on her face.

  “Never you mind,” said Ezma. “Keep reading until I return.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  She pulled a tattered cloak from the other room. It was ragged and eaten full of holes and smelled like dry grass and manure, but she tossed it on anyway. She also pulled out a wooden staff, one as tall as she was with a great knotted head that held an orange gemstone like a gnarled hand. She then kicked off her sandals, stretching her bare feet in the dirt. She tapped her feet with the staff, whereupon they began to bubble and bloat, becoming dirty, twisted things with long, yellowed nails. When she turned towards Mergau, her face was hideous, though still vaguely orcish, as if it had been smashed and reshaped unsuccessfully. Mergau cringed and pulled away instinctively.

  “How do I look?” said Ezma, her normal voice emanated from the horror of her face.

  Mergau wracked her meager Krik vocabulary. “Bad,” she said, frowning heavily for emphasis.

  “Good,” said Ezma. “Now be good and stay quiet in here while I take care of my errand.” She hobbled towards the door, supporting herself on her staff, and pulled it open. It was dusk, the sun setting somewhere on the far side of the hut, bathing everything in a ruddy light. She pulled the door shut and was gone.

  Mergau sat in the silence for a moment. While Ezma did leave with her letters every night, it was never while looking like half a corpse. Was it so she wouldn’t be recognized? But no, who would even know what she looked like? Perhaps Arix or one of the other elders?

  She decided it wasn’t important and returned to her books and pushed it from her mind. Then she sat up.

  Were those shouts?

  She looked over to find the door just barely ajar, a narrow stream of red light trickling in, almost invisible against the light of the fire. The walls were infused with some sort of magic, she knew, eating nearly all sound so that you couldn’t hear what was happening on the other side, though if she concentrated, she could sometimes hear when it was raining hard. But Ezma didn’t close the door all the way this time. She was usually so meticulous. That was very unlike her.

  Another call went up and Mergau made out an orcish man’s voice, and he wasn’t alone. She crawled over to the door, leaning against the wall next to the crack and listening. She wasn’t disobeying the mistress, she reasoned—after all, from what little she had understood, she was supposed to stay inside, which she was.

  And keep reading. Mergau scurried over and grabbed her book, then returned to the door, the book propped open in front of her. There. Now she was obeying the mistress perfectly. If she happened to hear something while she was sitting there against the door, there was no helping it.

  The voices got closer, and soon she could make out the clanking of armor and weapons. She guessed five or six from the din. Were these the ones that always took the letters? No, of course not. Ezma never disguised herself before, but she still seemed to be expecting them.

  “…So I told him, ‘sure, how long can you hold your breath?’” said one of the voices, to which the others burst into laughter.

  “He must not have liked that,” another voice howled.

  “The look on his face was like art. I took his head and put it on my wall, but I could never get the expression right.” The others laughed again. “‘The Mighty Tok’ my ass. He lasted two or three blows, that’s it. Another weakling blowhard, just like the rest of the Hollow Ashes clan.”

  “Pathetic bunch of storytellers. Oy, what’s that up ahead? Someone’s outhouse?”

  “Well look at that, a house all the way out here? How lucky! Think they’ll give us some dinner?”

  “Oh, they’ll give us food alright.”

  Whoever these men were, they weren’t any friends of Ezma—or she hoped not, seeing as they were wearing ornaments of bone and flesh, their belts festooned with skulls. These were men from the east, savage Kenta worshippers, maybe even cannibals. She didn’t know how they had made it so far west or what they were planning to do here, but their large curved swords and axes and metal armor suggested nothing peaceful.

  And they were all coming towards the hut where Mergau sat alone.

  Mergau swore silently. She would have no way to protect herself against those men if they came through the door. Was the enchantment that initially kept her out of the hut still in place? Would they wander away from here once they realized they couldn’t get in? What if they had some sort of magic charm that let them ignore the spell around the hut? They could come in unimpeded and find her there, defenseless. If that happened, the best-case scenario would be rape. If they weren’t in the mood for t
hat… she couldn’t bear to think of the things they might do to her; being killed would be terrible, yes, but Kenta worshippers were fond of torture and devouring people while they were still screaming.

  A shadow passed in front of the door and Mergau felt her heart jump, but it was Ezma’s voice that spoke next.

  “Visitors,” she said from just on the other side of the door. She was affecting a withered old woman’s warble. “We get so few around here.”

  “Oh, look at this here, Kama. It’s the lady of the house.”

  The largest of the men laughed. “I see her. Hey, little one. Out here all alone?”

  “Not alone, no. I have six strapping young warriors here with me.”

  The men chuckled. Mergau turned her book so she could peek through the crack. Her view couldn’t be better: Ezma was standing nearby leaning heavily on her staff, looking exactly how Mergau always imagined crones to look, her face and body obscured by her filthy rags, while the orcs were arrayed in the background, standing out starkly against the dusty cliffs.

  Mergau hadn’t seen Ezma perform any serious magic since she first arrived. Was her mistress capable of handling six armed and armored men?

  “Our good luck keeps getting better,” one of the men said. “Not only will we eat, but it looks like we have this woman to keep us company tonight. Kenta is kind.”

  “Not terribly kind,” said Ezma, letting her hood fall back to reveal her face, “or he would have sent you a better woman.”

  The men recoiled in unison. “Well, no complaining over a gift,” one in the back said. “Wrap that face of yours in your rags and you’re as good as any woman.”

  “Are you calling me ugly?” Ezma asked, sounding amused. “How rude.”

  “You called yourself ugly, little one.”

  “No. I said I was not a better woman.” Ezma tapped her staff in the dirt, kicking up a wave of sand like an explosion to wash over the men. They yelled angrily, wiping grit from their eyes and spitting.

  “She’s a damned witch,” said one.

  “A woman with magic?” said the one named Kama. “Kenta spits on you.”

  “You lot are lacking in good manners,” the crone said, “but I mustn’t forget mine. You said you were looking for dinner and it would be ill luck to refuse a guest this time of year. I’ll have to make something on short notice, but I’ll make do.”

  There was a flash of light and an explosive sound like thunder, only much too close. The men jumped at the noise, but Ezma didn’t seem to notice sight nor sound as she held out a hand to her side. She stood thus for several seconds before a bird, burnt and blasted, fell into her open palm. She clutched it and raised it up.

  “This will do for you,” she said, holding up the still-smoking carcass. It had to be burning hot, but she held it firmly as she waved it in the air.

  One of the men grew wild-eyed and grabbed his ax. “What insult is this? That bird is the Ogoro, symbol of our clan. How dare you try to serve it to us!”

  “I know what I do, Loopa of the clan of the Sky Devil. Or should I call you Lupu, ‘Little Beast,’ as you were called at your mother’s breast not because of how fiercely you ravaged her nipple as you’ve convinced your companions, but because the only sound you could make was a pitiful bark until you were four years of age?

  “And Akh,” she went on as Loopa blanched, “who claims he has killed a hundred men, elves, and orcs, but who has never drawn a drop of blood and who broke down in tears when his pet rabbit was stepped on by his drunken father.” She chuckled. “Last summer.”

  “You shut your mouth!” Akh shouted, but his hand didn’t even inch towards the ax that hung at his side, as if the thought of pulling it out never occurred to him.

  “And Bolnu,” the crone continued, “who was pampered by a wealthy father who loved him more than his wife and who called him his blessed baby long into his adulthood.” The named orc flushed as she moved swiftly on. “And Anda, who loves Kishieu. And Kishieu, who loves Anda.” The two named ones paled, their hands moving towards their weapons expecting an attack from their allies rather than the crone. “What do I have to fear of any of you? Were I to refuse you food and shelter, the five of you would act affronted and offer insults and threats, then slink away without any confrontation. You have the fighting spirit of wounded ruk.

  “But you, Kama,” she said, turning to the large orc in the middle who already had his sword leveled at the witch, “you are the only one who is truly a danger, the only one among you who has killed for joy and raped to satiate his lust. I burn your symbol, as I will burn you. But again, I mustn’t forget my manners, so I think dinner is in order.” She flung the bird at their feet.

  “I’ll cut you in half,” said the one named Kama, pushing to the front and waving his sword, an ugly thing of bone and iron, but the others didn’t follow him and, once he was standing at the fore, his bravado deflated, and he stopped advancing. Even if he was as vicious a murderer as Ezma stated, he didn’t seem fond of facing a witch.

  Ezma wasn’t intimidated. She raised a hand and gently, lazily, flicked her wrist in their direction. His sword bent in the middle and snapped, falling to the ground in pieces. At this, there were several curses, prayers, and even a whimper from the trespassers.

  Mergau almost giggled. Such tough-looking men they were, but when confronted with something they couldn’t fight, they were no different from anyone else. They were as frightened of Ezma as Mergau had been of them. That was the sort of power a mage held over the average person: the ability to make men seem as threatening as dim-witted cattle with a gesture.

  Kama threw down his broken sword. “Kenta spits on you!” he repeated, and his body began to pulse and undulate, the bloodlust coming upon him as his muscles bulged. Mergau reflexively began to draw away from the door, her new low view of the men overridden by her fear of the bloodlust, but a movement from Ezma stopped her. With a single finger extended, Ezma pointed towards the tumescent orc.

  “I had hoped you would do something foolish,” she said coolly, “for though I was loath to let you leave this place alive, so too was I unwilling to kill in cold blood, as you are apt to do. With this, however, I can do what I wished to do in all justice.”

  As she spoke, Kama’s skin split along the arm like the seam of a doll being rent. Even in his madness-infused form, he couldn’t help but stare in horror as his blood flowed from his body in a swirling mist, floating into the air and collecting into a massive crimson sphere. Kishieu and Anda gripped each other, Akh fell to his knees and vomited, Bolnu began screaming, and Loopa could only watch in open-mouthed fear. As his blood left him, Kama’s body shrank back to its normal size, then became smaller still, like an emaciated child, until it was clear that he was dead on his feet, kept standing by the sheer force of Ezma’s magic.

  When what Mergau could only assume was every drop in his body floated above it, Kama’s body fell, bursting into fire as it hit the ground, burning skin, muscle, and bone in a flash of blue-hot flames and blowing the ashes to the wind.

  The other orcs stood in mute terror, eyes darting from where Kama’s body fell to the witch standing before them to the undulating blood-sphere above. When Ezma pointed a finger towards the five living orcs, they cried out and huddled together.

  “Kama died for crimes committed and those yet to be done, but I am not a monster. In you, I do not sense the same unforgivable evil as in he. But I hereby curse you, each and all. Repent in your ways. Return home and never venture forth again. When those around you are hurting, friend or foe, you will render them your aid. When your kin need food and shelter, you will provide for them. When men and women come to you seeking help, you will help them earnestly. Do this, and no harm will befall you. Fail, and you will die. Now, be cleansed!”

  She jerked her hand and the ball of blood barreled towards the cowering orcs, bursting overhead and showering them with the essence of their former ally. They all screamed, their weapons flung down and forgotten. Covered in b
lood, they scrambled to be rid of the place. One of their party slipped in the blood and fell, calling out for the others in his terror. Surprisingly, the others stopped and turned back for him, wrenching him up and dragging him along with them; the only thing they feared more than the witch was ignoring the witch’s curse.

  And then they were gone.

  Mergau ran silently back to her spot on the floor, sitting down just as her mistress entered. Ezma shook the dust from her cloak and vanished it and the staff back to the other room and returned her features to normal. She went to go sit at her desk.

  “Mistress?” Mergau said quizzically, her breathing methodically controlled to hide the hammering in her chest.

  “So curious, aren’t you?” said Ezma, looking amused. “I suppose I wouldn’t be a good teacher if I punished curiosity, would I? Very well, if you must know, I was speaking to some friends who were stopping by for some much-needed advice. I sent them on their way.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Mergau smiled to herself in the knowledge that she had seen what perhaps she should not have seen. Maybe I am like the warlock’s understudy after all, she thought happily as she returned to her books.

  Chapter 7

  Command and Control

  Aoden awoke to a full tent once again.

  Provisioning had dropped off his things the day before and nothing seemed to be missing. They weren’t the fastest way to get his belongings from squad to squad, but their desire for perfection made them the most dependable. Even the royal mail service was openly envious of the precision and skill on display by the military’s Provision Corps. Every time Aoden charged provisioning with managing his belongings, even on those occasions when he didn’t know where he was going to be in a week, everything arrived intact. They just found him. It was one of the few things he could say without reservation that the elves had over on the humans, militarily speaking.