Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  …

  …fa rol…

  …

  …somno… ugh, damn it, this is hard.

  She felt like she was on the right track but trying to think about something and not think about it at the same time was impossible. She could get through a handful of symbols before she instinctively tried to read the words in her head.

  But it seemed to be working. Her hand felt warm when she finished despite not thinking parts of the spell aloud. She had to be on the right track. Why, if she didn’t have to read the words aloud, imagine how much faster the incantation could go! Ezma did say she had some sort of genius talent for grasping magic, right? Maybe this is the kind of thing she was talking about, learning ideas on her own and applying them. That must be it.

  Okay, if Ezma thinks I can do this, I can do this. I need to separate those two parts of my brain. I’m doing two things: picturing words and reading words. I need to distract the part that is reading with some other activity, and since that part deals with speaking words, perhaps a poem or a song will do.

  She tried a dry run. The incantation appeared in her mind, written out in the runes of the language of magic. She always imagined them etched onto a huge transparent cylinder in a vast black void, the symbols stark and fiery orange against the darkness. She mentally spun the cylinder, watching the symbols revolve and reverse and come back around, her mind picking out syllables and reading them aloud against her will.

  Now to try to stop herself from reading. Using a song seemed the best thing to distract her. The first one that jumped to mind was an old song the people of the western clans sang when they were in mourning. It made her sad to think of it, for she had last heard it at her brother’s funeral pyre, but she knew it well, and her eagerness to test her theory won out.

  She began to hum, spinning the cylinder in her mind and watching the letters drift by as she focused on the song.

  …fa rol zen tok ison somno… kalak gol ra…

  Humming wasn’t enough to distract the part of her mind that focused on the words. If that was the case, she would just have to sing aloud. Normally, she would be too embarrassed to sing in front of others, especially one as ready with criticism as Ezma, but she would make an exception today.

  She licked her lips and began to mumble the words.

  Father, upward, turn your eyes

  Pray as lost souls fill the skies…

  …fa… tok… somno… gol…

  She could feel it working, the words in the incantation fading away against her song. When she finished the incantation, the flames flared up weakly, but that was leaps and bounds better than when she wasn’t singing. She was certain now that she had found the way. She sang a bit louder, trying to drown out her own mind.

  Blessed fire, sacred earth,

  Bring them skyward for rebirth…

  …fa… gol…

  Mergau’s heartbeat and breathing were too rapid for her liking. She was getting too excited. She had to calm herself. She was getting so close, the flames erupting higher and stronger with every word she didn’t read, slowly approaching the strength it had been when she read the whole thing. She could already tell they were coming faster as well. Her voice was lifting with her excitement as she sang:

  Wind upon the sandy way

  Don’t allow the souls to stray…

  She wasn’t reading symbols anymore. The cylinder spun, the incantation for fire above, the canceling below. Was she down to four seconds now? Just how fast could she get? She was almost shouting as she continued.

  In the heavens, give them breath

  Laugh into the face of death…

  “Impressive yet again, Mergau,” said Ezma, now standing over Mergau’s shoulder, “but you’re learning too quickly for your own good. Increasing your speed to this level without the capacity to match can be dangerous. Let us stop for today.”

  Father, mother, hear our cry,

  Now unto the day we die…

  It was incredible! Even with Ezma now tugging at her robe, Mergau couldn’t bring herself to stop. The cylinder in her mind was spinning faster and faster, the words racing by and the flames rising and falling faster still. She was closing on once per second. Ezma’s voice was rising as well. “Stop this at once!” she shouted. “You’re focusing far too much magic for your body to handle!”

  She wasn’t sure what Ezma said. All she knew is her spell flared five times in the time it took her to say it.

  Let us reap whate’er we sow

  Let us prosper ere we go.

  Ezma sensed it before Mergau did, turning and covering her face with her arm. Mergau felt it a moment later, too late to react. The magic she had been steadily pumping into her hand had reached a critical point and she only now noticed. Even as she tried to pull back, it grew beyond her control and exploded outward.

  Magical fire engulfed her right hand; control meant protection, and without it Mergau felt the full heat as it traveled up her arm, burning more of her as it went. She screamed and waved her arm in a futile effort to put it out, falling out of her sitting position and rolling onto her back. She batted at the flames with her left hand, succeeding only in burning that arm as well.

  Ezma was there. Mergau felt something cut into her arm just ahead of the flames, but the pain was too unbearable to focus on it. She saw Ezma writing runes on her flaming arm with the ink and blood on her fingers. Her head was blanking, but she had enough wits about her to think, did she know this would happen, too?

  And then the pain became too much, and she passed out.

  Chapter 11

  Doubt and Separation

  The men were laughing again.

  It had hardly been a week since Garnis was killed in action, but the squad was back to their usual spirits, their boasts and stories and songs carrying through the camp as they worked and trained. How were they able to focus on their duties when just four days ago they had sent Garnis’s body back to his parents to be buried under their family tree?

  It was strange to Aoden that elves—beings so long-lived that burying two loved ones in a century was considered a tragedy of storied proportions—handled death so well. Aoden had suffered the deaths of his mother, his friends, and his nation, but each new death felt just as brutal and senseless as the last. He wondered if his decline into depression showed more or less moral character than the soldiers who were able to quickly compartmentalize their pain; then he felt like an ass for entertaining that thought at all.

  Aoden was expected to send condolences to the family as well as a list of accomplishments to be read at the funeral, something he was particularly ill-suited for. Aoden was having trouble coming up with anything to write. He had never been good with sending letters off to wives, parents, and children when he served in the human military, but the humans fought in bloody little conflicts against brigands and raiders from across the seas with such frequency that he eventually created a template to draw from when the need arose. It was commonplace after any given battle that he would have to send at least one letter off.

  But the elves didn’t die in those numbers. Even in times of war, their cautious tactics, stealth, and superior bowmanship meant that casualties were few. In Aoden’s forty years with the elves, he had never lost a squadmate; not as a soldier, a lieutenant, or a commander. Admittedly, those were times of peace, but forty years was still forty years. Now that he had suffered the loss of a good soldier, he understood that he had fallen into the trap of thinking that the elves were an invincible force, the very thing he had once chastised Dorim for thinking, and the death hit him all the harder for it.

  Though Aoden tried to hide it, he got the feeling that Dorim understood at least some of his pain. Dorim offered no complaint or gruff rejoinder when Aoden requested that the Lieutenant take care of writing the proper condolences and achievements for the funeral. Dorim was better suited to the task due to his many years serving with Garnis, but it was traditionally a commander’s duty and as close to sacred as military
matters got.

  Dorim was less understanding about his commander’s lackluster training. Grief or no, he demanded enthusiasm from Aoden during training and sparring, something Aoden found difficult to muster. Aoden had been chewed out more than once, but it was hard to take it seriously; Dorim’s reprimands always followed a trouncing by the sword of his despondent commander. Dorim did not take defeat from Aoden’s half-hearted efforts well.

  Death wasn’t merely a terrible personal experience, but a dreadful bureaucratic process as well. The circumstances surrounding Garnis’s death were closely investigated by the military. Elves from some branch or other responsible for internal investigations showed up at the camp with inquiries and demands, trying to determine why an elf had been killed in action when the elven nation was not officially at war. Dorim said the same had happened when their former commander had fallen to his death, but that did little to make the situation less unpleasant.

  The elves of his squad were completely upfront about the battle with the giant and the conduct of their fellows, but that did nothing to ease the minds of the investigators. Rather, it seemed to cause more questions.

  ‘Why were your men fighting a giant with swords?’ they asked.

  ‘We found arrows ineffective and changed our strategy,’ Aoden answered.

  ‘Did you order the use of swords? Was this your plan?’

  ‘I did order it, but it was Garnis, the deceased soldier in question, who suggested their use.’

  ‘What reason did you have to give his plan any credence?’

  ‘He was considered the most knowledgeable when it came to battling giants. The Lieutenant and others will corroborate this.’

  …And so on. The investigators were professional, thorough, and courteous, if a bit brusque, and Aoden could understand the reasoning behind their questions, but it was impossible not to take some of them personally. They were determined to find what had happened, but the implication that he or a member of the squad might be responsible for the death was a difficult insult to stomach.

  They were also, as with most elves, keenly aware that they were speaking to a half-elf. They took their jobs seriously, keeping their language professional and unbiased, but their body language spoke volumes. Having spent time with only his own squad for months, it was a stark reminder of the attitude he had previously been accustomed to.

  After a few days, the investigators deemed that no one but Magragda was at fault for the death and left satisfied, but not before their constant questions affected Aoden’s mood for the worse. Despite their findings, he found that he blamed himself.

  Aoden hadn’t been out of his tent much besides training and meals, partially to sort himself out, but also because he was putting his efforts into something of his own. He had always fancied himself a poet, deciding the best way to both honor this fallen soldier and shed some of his emotional burdens would be a eulogistic poem. He had been delaying for days, working on it on and off since they had set up camp, but he had finally resolved to settle down and finish the thing before the night was out.

  There was a knock on the entrance post. “Come on in,” Aoden said, still focused on the paper on the desk in front of him. He had written eighteen lines and was still checking his work, deciding whether to send the poem off. “What is it this time, Dorim?” he asked as the footsteps behind him came to a halt.

  “Dorim is handling drills, sir,” said the visitor, “so he sent me instead.” Aoden turned to find Mendoro waiting by the entrance.

  “Mendoro. Apologies, I’m used to the Lieutenant being the one to bother me while I’m busy. He comes in so often you’d think he owned the tent.”

  “I can return at a better time, sir.”

  “No, it’s alright. I’m just having a bit of fun at Dorim’s expense.” He turned to wipe dry his pen and seal his ink vial.

  “I see provisioning has replaced your lost furniture,” Mendoro observed as he waited for his commander to finish cleaning up.

  Aoden nodded absently. “It’s good to finally have a place for my books again. Fortunately, Magragda didn’t destroy too much of personal value, just a doll, some glassware, and a few books I hadn’t thumbed through in years.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And a mirror, which I will miss dearly.”

  “Ah, that is less good.”

  Aoden finished and turned back to his guest. “So, what do you have for me?”

  He pulled a message from his pouch and held it up. “From Archon Arisil, sir. It’s in regard to the reward for felling the giant, though we’re having something of a problem with it.” Aoden nodded for him to continue. “The reward is fifty-five hundred yews to be distributed evenly among the squad. However, with the loss of Garnis, the number doesn’t divide evenly. It falls to you to decide where the remainder goes.”

  “I see,” Aoden said, leaning back. Determining where a handful of coins went wasn’t important to him. He had plenty of yews by way of his military pay. The military provided for him, so he rarely spent any, hardly even knew what they were worth. While he kept a sack of four hundred of the little wooden things in his tent for emergencies, some of his men likely sent every last yew back to their families.

  The decision came easily enough.

  “Take Garnis’s cut of the bounty and send it to his family,” he said, turning back to his writing. “Send my portion of the bounty along with it as a personal thank you for his service. And my condolences, of course.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he answered off-handedly. “I don’t need the money, but his family might struggle without his pay. It is, in many ways, the least I can do.”

  With that taken care of, he returned focus to his poem. He had been writing it for days, and tomorrow was the last day before it would be too late to send it out. If he waited any longer than that, it wouldn’t arrive before they buried Garnis and if it wasn’t read at the funeral, it would be pointless. The problem was getting it to sound right. It was eighteen lines, it had a theme, it rhymed, but why didn’t it sound right? He tapped his pen irritably on his desk and cursed.

  “Sir?”

  Aoden jumped. Mendoro was still standing by the entrance. “You’re still here?”

  “You didn’t dismiss me, sir.”

  “Ah, sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought I made it clear we were done.”

  “And normally I would have taken it that way but, if the Commander wouldn’t mind, I have a question.”

  Aoden put his pen down and returned his attention to the stiff elf. “You don’t have to speak so formally with me, you know,” Aoden pointed out. “Dorim isn’t here to yell at you for stepping out of line.”

  Mendoro furrowed his brow. “This is my natural way of speaking, sir. Do you find it odd?”

  Elvish was a dynamic language with deeper meaning behind every word. Though much was lost in translation, the words Mendoro chose to express himself heavily suggested deference, respect, and formality. If indeed he always spoke like that, then it certainly was odd: the form he chose was usually utilized by those in the high courts, the military leadership, or the king and his council. Aoden himself had used such forms when speaking with Archon Arisil, though otherwise, it was rarely necessary.

  “You didn’t come here for me to nitpick your speaking habits,” he evaded. “You said you had a question?”

  “Yes, although it is not an easy thing for me to ask, or perhaps for you to answer.”

  Aoden’s curiosity was roused. “I appreciate the candor. Speak freely.”

  “I see. Well,” Mendoro began, clearing his throat. He looked remarkably young and nervous at the moment. “I was wondering how the commander was… feeling.”

  Aoden blinked at him. “How I’m feeling?”

  Mendoro nodded, continuing slowly. “About Garnis.”

  Aoden must have been giving Mendoro a strange look because the soldier straightened up and tried to brush it off. “It’s not important.
I’ve delivered the message, so if that’s all—”

  “No, sorry,” Aoden cut in. “You just caught me by surprise. I’m don’t often get asked that question. I just—why do you ask?”

  Mendoro relaxed a bit. “I’m not sure if you knew this, sir, but Garnis was my only cousin.”

  Aoden said, “I was unaware. My condolences.”

  Mendoro nodded. “Thank you, sir. I have no brothers or sisters, so his death was especially hard for me. Our squadmates consider discussing death to be ill luck, so I’ve not had a way to express myself. Then I noticed that the commander was similarly affected and thought perhaps we could speak.”

  Aoden sat back in his chair. “I thought I was holding it in rather well.”

  Mendoro shook his head. “You shouldn’t. The men can tell you’re upset, and well any commander should be at the loss of an elf. They begrudge you nothing. I, for one, appreciate the effect it has had on you, for you seem the closest to knowing how I feel.”

  Aoden offered the elf a seat, figuring he had stood long enough. “I suppose we can talk, though I don’t know if what I have to say will make you feel better. I can’t even make myself feel better.”

  “I’m hopeful that talking will be enough. My family is small,” he said, taking the seat and diving right in as if he expected the offer to be retracted any second. “Garnis and I were the only ones of our generation. It had taken my aunt and uncle nearly two centuries to conceive, and he was their greatest joy.”

  Aoden made a sympathetic noise. A typical elven conception usually took ten to twenty years of planning. Two hundred years was extraordinarily long, though not unheard of. “Was he younger or older?”

  “Older, though only by sixteen years. We weren’t exactly raised together, but I did see him two or three times a year before we joined the military and I considered him a good friend.”

  “I’m sad to say I didn’t know him well, but he seemed to me like the type who was a troublemaking child.”