Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  “You’re not going to wear the same clothes again today, are you?” he asked. “We’re fairly close in height and build. It might be tight in some places, but you can borrow some of my—”

  “I’d rather wear nothing than wear your clothes,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m sure you would draw a lot of elven eyes that way.”

  “And if you saw an illusion of a beautiful nude elven woman, how hard would you try to look through it?”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Just don’t freeze to death.”

  She frowned at him and made a disapproving noise. His concern annoyed her. It seemed like everything annoyed her, frankly. Everything but reading. Was it orcs as a whole, or was she just a cold person? Aoden had no choice but to write it off as nerves compounding whatever initial dislike for him she still felt. He wished he had made a better first impression.

  At least she looked to be warming up to him.

  The day mostly passed as usual. He ate his lunch with the men. There was typically plenty of fruit and bread to take back, and Aoden had the sneaking suspicion that the men were purposefully leaving it behind for the rumored woman in the commander’s tent. Dorim apparently couldn’t help but inform at least one soldier of her beauty, so of course the whole squad was aware within minutes. Naturally, the elves were curious, perhaps too much so. Dorim then felt the need to tell them her whole story to convince them not to spy on her, leaving Aoden frustrated and trying to remember why he left Dorim to explain things in the first place. He didn’t take Dorim for such a socially clumsy man.

  Sloppy though it was, Dorim’s explanation at least succeeded in dissuading the elves from entering the tent unbidden, and no one would attempt to spy lest they be branded a pervert.

  Aoden brought some of the abundant leftovers to his tent, letting Mergau take her pick, and they talked. Her general disinterest with elven society was fine with Aoden; it just meant more time for his own questions.

  They were discussing inter-clan politics—a subject which fascinated Aoden but Mergau found particularly dull—when there was a knock on the doorframe. Mergau leaped to her bed and threw the blanket over herself, curling up and facing the wall. Aoden waited until she was well hidden before brushing the tent flap aside and strolling out.

  “Sir,” said Mendoro, saluting. His other hand was resting on his sword, the index finger circling the pommel.

  Aoden nodded. “Isn’t it a bit early to begin?” He looked up at the sun, barely past its zenith.

  “I wanted to start before training officially began. I figured we should both be fresh.”

  “More like you couldn’t wait any longer.” Mendoro’s lip twitched upward, settling into a sheepish half-smile.

  “You were gone for a while and we never got a practice round in. You’ve been back for several days and yet I’ve been kept waiting. I may as well be more direct.”

  “I see.” Aoden looked around. A few of the soldiers had caught on to what was unfolding and were pointing comrades their way. It looked like Mendoro wasn’t the only one anticipating their match. “The delay was unintentional; there was just too much paperwork to catch up on upon my return. I suppose I have no excuses left.”

  “Then shall we?”

  Aoden nodded. Mendoro led the way over to where the practice supplies were stored in a pair of crates bound by rope. He retrieved a pair of wooden swords, tossing one to the Commander. By now, most of the squad was aware of what was happening and were moving off to one side, clearing a square field to serve as an arena. Dorim was leaning against one of the poles of his tent smiling to himself, perhaps happy to see the duel finally getting underway, or pleased with himself for putting the idea in Mendoro’s head, or anticipating seeing the man who had trounced him so many times finally humbled.

  “We’ll go one round, so feel free to give it your all,” Aoden said, taking up position on one side of the field and Mendoro taking the other. “If what I’ve seen and heard is any indication, this isn’t going to be a quick bout.”

  “I hope not, sir.” Mendoro gripped his sword with both hands, bringing the hilt up to his cheek and pointing the blade across the field towards Aoden. Oddly, he held the blade with his right hand in the dominant position despite being a left-handed fighter. Aoden sensed some ploy afoot.

  “Lieutenant, if you could give the signal,” Aoden said, grasping his own blade with his right hand and keeping his left free. “First to strike is the victor.”

  Dorim, still leaning against his tent, raised a hand in the air, his eyes moving back and forth between the two of them. It was clear this wouldn’t be a sparring match so much as a full-blown fight. He waited a comfortably long time, sniffed once, and dropped his hand in a chopping motion.

  Mendoro charged, his blade leveled. Aoden reckoned it a feint, expecting Mendoro to release the blade with his right and slash with his left, gaining a bit of extra distance with the reversed grip. He brought his own blade up as Mendoro approached, ready to catch the slash, but found the charge wasn’t stopping as expected. Mendoro thrust forward, his feint itself a feint. Aoden was barely able to shift his torso out of the way as the practice sword stabbed the space he was occupying a moment before.

  Mendoro’s thrust left him open. Aoden brought his blade down, but his lack of balance from dodging and the awkward angle made the strike too slow. Mendoro jerked his left arm back with startling speed, catching Aoden’s chop and forcing it away. They both took a step away, giving Mendoro a moment to shift his blade to his dominant hand, then moved forward and engaged in earnest.

  Years of experience and months practicing with Dorim made Aoden comfortable with taking on other swordsmen, but there was a significant difference not only in skill but style as well. Dorim was slower and more obvious, while Mendoro was less predictable, wilder. Likewise, Mendoro had plenty of practice fighting right-handed soldiers while Aoden had little fighting lefties. He was finding he couldn’t exploit the usual openings and vulnerabilities he was used to.

  Aoden struck with an overhand slash, finding it blocked, then leaped away as Mendoro’s blade twirled for an easy wrist strike. The failed attack transformed into a thrust that Aoden turned aside. He attempted to keep Mendoro’s blade at bay as he stepped into Mendoro’s open side, but the wily elf danced sideways, drawing his blade across Aoden’s to prevent it being raised in a counterstrike.

  Mendoro came in with a vertical then horizontal cut in quick succession, both easily blocked, and used the short distance he had created between them to attempt to trod on Aoden’s feet and trip him up. He clipped Aoden’s heel, causing the commander to stumble back. Mendoro stabbed, but the half-elf pushed his sword into his opponent’s and turned it, using both hands to force in back. Mendoro had to get his free hand on the back of his own blade to prevent it from being thrown into him. His balance recovered, Aoden pressed down, his strength overpowering the elf’s. His opportunity blown, Mendoro retreated a step to recover his bearings before advancing again.

  The other elves in the squad began to clap and cheer, seeing for the first time in their lives an intense fight between two excellent swordsmen. Dorim was adequate, but Mendoro was actually a good match for the Commander. They alternated strikes and counterstrikes, offense and defense, and just as it looked like one was gaining the advantage, a well-timed sidestep or disengage either brought things back into balance or completely turned the tides. Even those less enthralled with the sword couldn’t tear their eyes from the battle.

  There was, however, one noticeable difference between the two combatants: while Mendoro was moving at a constant pace, his blade lashing out with a uniform, lightning speed, Aoden only seemed to get faster, his strikes becoming harder and more unforgiving as the duel raged on. That was because, as any human would have understood, the half-elf had one significant advantage over this full-blooded elf: adrenaline. Elves produced none, but the same remnant of his parentage that made Aoden too shaky to out-perform an elf with a bow would only
serve to tilt the outcome of a swordfight further and further in his favor as time wore on. Mendoro could last longer due to his natural endurance, but Aoden’s abilities were only beginning to spike.

  Mendoro chanced another thrust, but Aoden was more than ready. He held the attack off and reached forward, grasped Mendoro by the sword arm, and stepped back. Mendoro came with him, flung past the Commander and off balance. Mendoro attempted a swipe as he was thrown, but Aoden’s sword was still against his, foiling him.

  Aoden pushed Mendoro’s blade off his own and charged forward, dragging his sword upwards in a vicious slice. Mendoro blocked, but his sword was nearly wrenched from his hands by the impact. Undeterred, Aoden brought the full strength of his shoulder to bear on the clashing weapons. Mendoro was forced to take a step back, but Aoden moved with him, pulling upward as he went. He felt the tip sink into his opponent’s abdomen, travel upwards across the chest, and finally free itself over the shoulder, thrusting Mendoro’s sword out of the way and into his own face.

  The squad erupted into a mix of cheers, laughter, and empathetic ‘oohs’ as Mendoro stumbled back. He dropped his practice sword and rubbed his face where it had hit him, lifting his leathers with his other hand and examining the red welt that was already forming on his stomach. His jaw clicked as he said, “Son of a bitch,” drawing more laughter from his comrades.

  “You alright?” Aoden asked, putting his blade down and approaching.

  Mendoro shook his head. “Guess I’m still not there yet,” he said, though his tone was happy. He held his hand out to Aoden.

  “You’re close,” Aoden said, shaking the offered hand. “I’d say you fight at an expert level already. I’d readily vouch for you if asked.”

  Mendoro’s cheeks reddened a bit, but he nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, sir. That was an amazing fight. I hope for another chance soon.”

  Aoden laughed. “I feel like you may have me next time.”

  The men came in, arms slinging around the defeated elf, doling out compliments and reassurances. A few coins changed hands as those who had placed bets on Mendoro paid up, though judging by the amount, Aoden was favored to win.

  It was early, but the men started pulling out the training supplies and setting them up, eager after watching the fight to improve their own sword work. Dorim walked over to the Commander’s side with his own practice blade ready to go.

  “Congratulations,” Dorim said. “Closer than you’d care to admit, eh?”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Aoden said. He picked his sword off the ground. “If he were just a little faster, I would be in serious trouble. He has talent, no doubt. I haven’t had a fight like that in a while. Gods, it puts me in a good mood. But I doubt you came over here to talk about Mendoro.”

  Dorim grinned. “Of course not,” he said, raising his sword. “And now that Mendoro’s tired you out, I’ve got you right where I want you. Best get your guard up, Commander.”

  ***

  They were only a few seconds into their fifth bout when Dorim’s gaze shifted. Sensing his distraction, Aoden lunged, brushing past the Lieutenant’s sword and striking him square in the chest with the point. Dorim didn’t even lift his sword to fend off the blow, rocking a step back from the impact, his arm falling to his side.

  “Come now, Dorim, what’s got—?” Aoden didn’t need to finish the question. As he turned to scan the area behind him, the answer was obvious.

  The elf strode into the camp in his bright blue robes and high-necked fur cloak, hands on his hips, surveying the tent formation and dueling elves with open interest.

  “Excuse me,” Archon Keenas said, addressing an open-mouthed Coros, his sword dangling from his fingers. “I’m looking for squad four-one-eight. Is this it?”

  Coros managed to nod his head a fraction of an inch.

  “Good. I’m looking for your commander.”

  Aoden thrust his sword into Dorim’s limp hand and took off towards his command tent. He threw the flap open and rushed in.

  Mergau jolted up from her bed when he entered, a book splayed on her pillow.

  “Oh! I thought you were someone—”

  “No time. You need to listen carefully. A mage is in camp, a powerful one with authority to walk into my tent at will. Whatever you do, stay hidden and don’t make a sound.”

  “What?” Mergau’s looked around the tent. “Where the hell am I supposed to hide?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking at the low-slung beds, the high tables, and the small bookshelf. “You need to think of something, and fast.”

  Aoden dashed from the tent so swiftly that he almost crashed into the Archon.

  “Ah, Commander,” said Keenas smoothly as Aoden stumbled to a halt.

  “Archon Keenas!” he yelped, barely a step out of his tent. He snapped the flap closed behind him. He straightened himself out, saluted, and steadied his voice. “An honor, sir. What brings you to our little camp?”

  Keenas’s eyes took in Aoden’s appearance, scanning his boots and leggings, his tunic and gauntlets, his commander insignia, his face, his hair, and finally his ears. Keenas’s eyes lingered a bit too long on the ears for Aoden’s taste, but he waited patiently until the inspection was over and the Archon met his eyes again.

  “I see why they call you ‘Saliel,’” he said. “You must pardon my intrusion, but I had sent several messengers to this camp over the past month with no response. Each deemed their letters undeliverable. Being a matter of some import, I decided to come myself to avoid wasting any more time.”

  Aoden was flustered. “My apologies, Archon. The timing of the messages happened to coincide with my leave. I was informed by my lieutenant that such messages had arrived, but we didn’t know who sent them or why; otherwise, I’d have gotten back to you as soon as possible.”

  Keenas politely waved away his explanation. “These things happen. The topic of the messages in question was a most interesting report submitted by your superior, Archonite Valdon. He claims squad four-one-eight succeeded in locating and eliminating that bothersome oaf Magragda where specialized squads tried and failed. Does that sound about right?”

  Despite the Archon’s easy demeanor, Aoden didn’t like the tone of Keenas’s voice or the smirk that was playing across his features as he spoke, but he responded quickly when prompted. “That’s right, sir. We brought him low, though sadly lost one of our brothers in the fray. We are flattered to learn that word of our success has reached the ears of someone as esteemed as yourself.”

  “My perch isn’t so high that I would fail to notice all the interesting tidbits the good Archonite Valdon deigned to mention in his report. The target, the squad, the commander.” The humorous tinge to his voice at the last word raised Aoden’s hackles. Keenas sounded ready to chuckle, but instead breathed in as he turned to acknowledge the elves gathered there. “Would you be so kind as to give me and your commander some privacy?”

  The elves complied, clearing themselves to the other side of the camp at a run. Keenas watched them go, the silence between them stretching on.

  “I’ve come to clarify a few things,” he said, turning back to Aoden, any semblance of a smile gone and a hardness to his eyes and voice. “And I’ll need you to answer honestly.”

  And there it was. The distrust Aoden had been expecting. Sadly, he was not surprised.

  “Always, sir,” said Aoden shortly.

  “Let me be frank: where is the golden idol mentioned in the report?”

  “The idol, sir?”

  “Yes, the golden trinket recovered from Magragda’s nose ring. It is the size of a plum and looks like an ugly gold monkey. The report said the squad kept it as a trophy of their victory.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Bring it to me. I would have it.”

  Aoden was taken aback by the request. “I, wha, but, no,” he said, his words tumbling out in a jumble.

  Keenas’s gaze turned icy. “Excuse me?”

/>   Aoden nearly choked. Damn it if he wasn’t as star-struck by the Archon as his men. It made his mouth clumsy. “I-I mean it isn’t mine to give, sir,” he recovered. “It doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to the squad. And they’ve every right to it, for they fought hard to win Magragda’s trinket and it would be grossly inappropriate to take that from them, even for an archon.” At first, he wasn’t even sure why he had disagreed, but now felt bolstered by the logic of his own argument.

  The Archon narrowed his eyes. “I think you will find that this falls well within my authority.”

  Aoden was insulted by the audacity. “I don’t know what purpose you have for it, whether to smelt it into rings or claim the glory that goes with it, but it’s a symbol of our victory and, under the Articles of Conquest, we have full rights to it. We will not be handing it over. Sir.”

  “Well, aren’t you cheeky? I’ve slain worse than giants single-handedly. I don’t care for the trinkets of small glories.”

  Aoden bristled, the insults becoming more than he could stomach. “It wasn’t small for us. I can understand the disdain for me—typical, really—but one of my full-blooded elves died for it. I would think it below your station to rob your fellows of their dignity. Now if you’re through insulting my men, I respectfully request that you remove yourself from my camp. Sir.”

  Keenas was not in the least shamed by the Commander’s words. “I’m not leaving without that idol,” he said, stepping towards the tent. Aoden reflexively moved in his path.

  “Where are you going?”