Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  Mendoro’s lips twitched upward. “He preferred ‘adventurous,’ saying he had a hunter’s spirit. There was no doubt he loved to hunt but, spirit or no, he once climbed up our town’s wardtree and scratched off the third rune from the top.”

  Aoden snorted. “So he was a troublemaker for sure.”

  Mendoro nodded. “The rune was covered by foliage, so it took a while for anyone to notice. It wasn’t until the animal that was typically warded off by the rune wandered in that it came to light what he had done.”

  “Oh? And what animal was that?”

  Mendoro couldn’t repress a grin at the memory. “A bear.” He laughed, and Aoden joined him. “He misread them and thought he had wiped out the ‘bird’ rune, so he had gone around bragging about it and telling other children to watch the skies. Naturally, it was only minutes after the bear was driven off that the whole town knew who to blame.”

  “He sounds like he was a character.”

  Mendoro gave him a mischievous look. “He was.”

  As the drills outside noisily progressed, Mendoro talked, taking Aoden’s interest as a sign that he could be open, spilling out his own bottled-up emotions. He told Aoden stories about Garnis that were so hard to believe, Aoden doubted they could be made up: about the time he was found caught in one of his own traps; about the time he tracked a majestic buck for so long that when it finally came time to kill the beast, he fell asleep with bow in hand; about the time he nearly froze to death waiting in ambush for an unknown mark which would later turn out to be the infamous shadow wolf. Before Aoden knew it, he had forgotten about the poem on his desk, so lost was he in the stories of the late elf.

  “What an interesting life,” Aoden said, hand on chin. “It truly is a shame. Who knows what stories were yet waiting to be told about him? I had a friend like that long ago, sharp as a tack and twice as likely to get lodged in your foot. Or the other way around.” He chuckled in remembrance. “He was kicked out of pubs so often that we called him ‘Sam the Boot.’ Not the catchiest name, but it fit him well.”

  “And where is your footwear friend now?” Mendoro asked, now comfortable after reminiscing.

  Aoden threw up a hand. “Old age got him. Lucky bastard. His heart gave out at seventy-four. He lived a good, long life.”

  Mendoro was momentarily taken aback. “Oh. Of course. I’d almost forgotten…” He rubbed his hands, uncomfortable.

  Aoden laughed. “What? That I’m a half-elf? That would make you one of the few. Don’t worry about it. I find it rather complimentary, actually.”

  Mendoro raised a brow. “Complimentary?”

  “Not that I hold any shame being a human, elf, or any mix thereof,” Aoden amended, “but you know how it is. People are slow to overlook.”

  Mendoro nodded, his mind elsewhere. “It must be difficult,” he said, “to outlive your friends and family by so long. Surely I will live hundreds of years longer than my parents, but that will only be a fraction of my life. To live most of it without them…” He shook his head, refusing to find words to express the thought.

  Aoden shrugged. “My mother died rather peacefully. The pneumonia that took her was rough, but at least she went in her sleep. I don’t have to sit around as long as full elves, though; if my life goes well, I’ll see her in three, four hundred years tops, Croon willing. It’s not so bad to look back on, but I was a right mess for a while after.” He shook his head. “I locked myself up in her house for weeks, refusing to come out, churning out little poems and ditties on whatever scrap of paper I could find. Childish, I know, but old habits are hard to break. Her old neighbor, Mr. Barnaby, finally coaxed me out. He was a good man, died a few months before the Fury, thankfully. I wouldn’t want him to see it. Most of my friends weren’t so lucky, and I don’t like imagining it.”

  Aoden realized he was rambling. “Sorry. I usually don’t talk about these sorts of things. This whole unfortunate episode has gotten me a tad nostalgic. Apologies for dragging the conversation to myself.”

  “No need to apologize, sir,” Mendoro said sincerely. “You listened to me, for which I am grateful. The least I could do is return the favor.”

  “I appreciate that.” Aoden slapped his own thigh. “And while I’d love to keep going, I need to get back to work. I promised myself I’d finish this before tomorrow.”

  “What are you working on?”

  That would have been an impertinent question anywhere else, but Aoden expected no less among the elves, even with Dorim’s strictness. “I was penning a eulogy poem to be read at Garnis’s burial, actually. When I’m melancholy after a death, it seems the only cure is poetry, though it’s not turning out how I had hoped.”

  “I see,” Mendoro said. “If it is for Garnis, may I offer my assistance? I’m something of a poet myself.”

  “Really?” Mendoro gave a short nod. “That would help. I’ve been going over this all week and debating whether I should send anything at all. Though I wish it weren’t true, sending nothing would probably be better than this.”

  “You're too hard on yourself, sir,” said the elf. He looked over Aoden’s shoulder at the poem. “Ah, a Fallamian Sonnet! A lovely form to commemorate…” he trailed off as he read. “Hmm…”

  “I know. It’s not very good, is it?”

  “It… it could use some work, yes. Especially if it’s going to be read at my cousin’s burial.”

  Aoden sighed. “I thought as much. I should just tear the damn thing up.”

  Mendoro stayed his hand. “That shouldn’t be necessary. I think you’re on the right track. The idea behind it is fine, but it’s full of clichés and nonsense.” Without leave, he unsealed the jar of ink on the desk. “Like here,” he said, taking Aoden’s pen and circling a line. “The language is lukewarm compared to the strong emotion the listener will be expecting. You’re feeling real pain. You need to express that. Something like this would be more appropriate.” He dashed off a new line.

  “Oh, that’s much better.”

  “And this line, about how the ‘stars weep for him?’”

  “You don’t like that line?”

  “No. It’s drivel.”

  “But it fits the rhyme scheme. If we change that line, we’ll have to change the previous line as well.”

  “If that’s the cost, then I would be more than happy to pay.”

  Mendoro had not been boasting about his poetic chops. His hand darted across the page, crossing out this word, replacing that, fixing the rhythm where it was wonky. In half an hour, the eulogy was so markedly better that it barely seemed like the same piece of work. It actually made Aoden feel bad about how terrible his own version had been, but Mendoro wasn’t condescending with his opinion. He seemed a bit angry that poetry was being so roughly handled, but that anger was focused on fixing the problem rather than on Aoden.

  “This is wonderful,” said Aoden, rereading the notes and compiling them into a final draft. “I certainly won’t be ashamed to send this to Garnis’s family, though I would be to affix my name to it. I think you should sign your name instead.”

  Mendoro put up a hand. “I’ve already sent my thoughts to my family. They don’t need to hear any more from me. I would be honored to have my commander send his regards, and my aunt and uncle would be thankful as well. Besides, the words may be mine, but the emotions are yours. Anyone can string together syllables in the right order, but those feelings are what lie at the heart of a poem.”

  Aoden chuckled. That sounded like worse drivel than what he had written. “If you insist,” he said, dashing off a signature. “Thank you, Mendoro. I truly appreciate your help. I feel this would’ve been an insult to Garnis’s memory without you.”

  “Anything for my cousin. And if you need help with any future poetry, I would be more than willing to give you my criticism.”

  “Positive criticism, I hope.”

  “I make no promises.”

  Aoden laughed. “Very good. I will doubtless take you up on that offer.
But I’ve kept you long enough. Perhaps you’d best get back to training. You’ve been here for over an hour and I’m sure Dorim is wondering where you are.”

  Mendoro shrugged. “There is no hurry. I have no one to train with.”

  “Oh?” said Aoden. “The others have finally given up trying to fight you, have they? Even Loom? He was getting along really well last time I saw you two go at it.”

  “I’m afraid he can’t keep up with me, sir. That’s part of the reason why the Lieutenant sent me here.”

  “Ha! Is the Lieutenant afraid that you’ll whoop him if he tries to spar with you?”

  Mendoro answered reluctantly. “We already had a match, sir. The victory went to me.”

  Aoden arched a brow. “And Dorim thought to pawn you off to me for training, did he?”

  “That was likely his intention, yes. He says he mentioned the idea of me training with you directly once or twice.”

  “I see.” He picked up the poem, sealed it for transport, and handed it to Mendoro. “Honestly, I’d like nothing better. I can think of no one in this squad better suited to train with me; you’re eager, I’m willing, and frankly, I think it would be something of a good show for the others. That said, I’m afraid the timing couldn’t be worse. I was going to announce it tonight over dinner, but I’m taking leave starting the day after tomorrow and will be gone for the better part of a month. I’ll be more than happy to test your abilities when I return because I’d rather not start my vacation covered in bruises.”

  “You overestimate me, sir,” Mendoro said.

  “When it comes to swordplay, you can never overestimate your opponent enough. I have a feeling your skill will save you at some point in the future, mark my words. Your ability is something to hold dear, and I look forward to cultivating it.”

  Mendoro looked abashed but said nothing. Aoden considered the elf. Between his remarkable skill with poetry and the sword, he had every right to be full of himself but instead remained humble. Not just humble for an elf, either. He was talented and considerate and would doubtless be a lieutenant someday, perhaps even a commander. Aoden wasn’t sure if he had ever noted that about one of his elves before, though that may have been more from lack of interest than their inability.

  “Give that letter to a messenger, then send Dorim to my tent. I need to get things prepared for my departure, so don’t take too long.”

  “Yes, sir. Have a good trip, sir.”

  Aoden dismissed Mendoro properly this time. He still had another letter to write and packing to do, but his thoughts alternated between Garnis, the first elf that had ever died under his command, and the first leave he had taken in near a decade. They didn’t coincide by chance. The loss of his man and all this talk of death reminded him that there was someone out there he hadn’t lost yet, and it was about time he visited.

  Chapter 12

  Separation and Blood

  Mergau meditated as instructed.

  She hated meditation, but after the fire catastrophe, Ezma had was done with her ignoring instructions and talking back. Practical lessons were put on hold, replaced by emotional control. Theory remained at the end of the day, where Ezma took to teaching again, saying Mergau couldn’t be trusted to learn on her own.

  Mergau didn’t know what to make of Ezma anymore. Did Ezma know that explosion was going to happen? She seemed more than ready to handle Mergau’s condition right away, what with the blood and ink, but Ezma was also furious. Mergau had barely regained consciousness when Ezma fell to berating her. Mergau, to her credit, had the grace to be ashamed.

  ‘I’ve told you time and time again,’ Ezma ranted, ‘not to focus too much power in one place until you learn to control it properly. This is exactly what happens when you ignore my instructions. Let that burn remind you for the rest of your days.’

  Mergau flexed her left arm, the skin taut on the underside, shiny and hairless where it was scarred. Her right arm was fine, strangely. Ezma chided her, saying if she had paid attention during lectures, she would know of the natural healing properties of magic. All that magic concentrated in her right hand repaired the damage as it was happening, saving it from scarring but also amplifying her pain as her nerves were destroyed and rebuilt over and over. Her left arm, being bereft of magical flow, did not heal. Mergau was just lucky she didn’t do even worse damage to herself in her panic.

  She had the sneaking suspicion that Ezma could have prevented the scarring if she wanted to. Mergau could be mistaken, but if her own magic saved her right arm, then Ezma’s could have saved the left. The blood on her dress she understood, but a burn on her body? Wasn’t that going too far as a reminder? Now her arm felt hot and pinched and itched all the time.

  Mergau yearned to use more magic, but even shifting into her stances brought down a rain of blows from Ezma. Every time she was interrupted, however, her defiance grew, wanting to try again just to spite Ezma.

  She remembered one of the lessons she had been taught back when she was learning the stances. ‘As you learn to control your magic,’ Ezma had said, ‘you can make circuits in your body, in your chest and your stomach, not needing to rely on your hands, fingers, and fists. Even bound from head to foot, a master mage can control and direct magic as they see fit.’ And so every time she fell into a stance, she focused on the feeling of the magic within her until the moment Ezma interrupted her. Thanks to the progress she had made with her spells, she could pinpoint the flow of magic within herself, and slowly the patterns were becoming apparent.

  In the beginner’s stance, magic moved sluggishly along her arms and legs but raced through her stomach and chest, rising in two columns that seemed to pass under her ribs. Perhaps if she could find a way to weave those columns between her ribs, it would slow the flow enough to give her the same level of control that the stance did. If it worked, not having to stoop in that humiliating position would be reward enough.

  On the other hand, the aggressor’s stance (or warrior’s stance—Ezma used them interchangeably) was intended to speed up casting at the expense of control. She stretched her arms out, shaped her hands into claws, bent her legs like an animal waiting to pounce, and twisted her torso a quarter turn so one arm was in front of her and one was behind. By twisting the body and swinging her back arm forward, she could cast spells at a higher rate by ‘throwing’ them which, according to Ezma, was why magical duelists were sometimes derisively referred to as ‘spellslingers.’ Mergau could feel the magic gain a burst of speed as she went through the flinging motion, but she had no inkling as to how to replicate that without any movements.

  She had the easiest time with the sage’s stance. She stood with her arms and legs spread so that a circle could be drawn touching her fingers and toes. The stance was best used for spells focused on the self like shields, cloaks, and teleportation, according to Osotki’s Magic Compendium. The distribution of magic was easy to understand: the magic spread evenly throughout her body with a slightly elevated concentration at the center of the ring near her stomach. With enough awareness, she could replicate that distribution simply enough.

  There were more stances, but those were the three she would most need to learn to build within herself—that, and she was also tired of getting the switch from Ezma. When she was satisfied that she had a sense of these stances, she began to practice generating the same flow from within during her meditation. She was supposed to be clearing her mind and finding inner peace, but her time would be better spent focusing her magic.

  Ezma, meanwhile, was moving on to a new stance and various types of spells that could be used with it. “It’s called ‘the mentor,” she said, assuming the stance. She stood tall and straight with her arms resting on the small of her back. “This is the simplest two-part stance. Many master mages continue to use it even after abandoning the other stances. The mentor is inconspicuous, relaxed enough that your magic’s flow slows until nearly invisible to even a well-trained eye. To the casual observer, you’re merely walking and thin
king. For casting, you move into the second form of the stance, simply raise your arm until it’s parallel with the ground and flex your hand so it’s perpendicular. Unlike the other stances, you do not expel your magic from your body in a fireball or gust of air, but rather you allow it to radiate from your open palm. The mentor is the weakest stance in terms of power, perfect for spells that affect your target’s mind or other delicate magic.”

  Affecting the mind would no doubt be useful. Mergau thought it was worth adding the mentor to her internal study.

  She had been using her daily runs as time to practice her magic, seeing as Ezma stayed in front of the hut with her watch. Mergau had been hesitant with the fire spell, her scar doing its duty by reminding her of the last time she used it, but her desire to learn won out. She ran with her hand outstretched, the fire floating above it. So long as she didn’t recite the cancellation spell, it happily burned. Throwing it like a fireball was tough as the fire burst into little embers as soon as she released it and quickly fizzled out.

  So she practiced slowly pushing the flame farther and farther from her hand, trying to maintain control of its shape and size. It was simpler than expected. It was surprisingly similar to focusing magic in any part of her body, except instead of thinking of her arm or chest, she thought of the space her ball of fire occupied and imagined it as part of her body. She had to close her eyes to concentrate at first, but after a few days of practicing she could manage even with her eyes open and focused elsewhere, relying only on the feeling.

  From there, throwing the fireball was easy. By releasing her control of the ball as it struck something, it would explode, sending flames in every direction. The sandy trail she ran along was perfect for tossing fireballs without fear of setting the whole area ablaze. Once she was satisfied with her control, she tried to reach out and focus her power on other things, mostly rocks, and used the same principles to lift them into the air. By ‘squeezing’ her power, she should even crush some of the more brittle ones.