Fury Lingers: Book One of The Foreseen Trilogy

by Ethan Spears

  The elves didn’t want her to leave either; considering she didn’t speak to them at all, Mergau was very popular among the squad.

  She sat at the table with the men during meals, having grown so tired of being locked away in the tent that her need for freedom overpowered her caution. Aoden, naturally, had advised against her roaming around outside, but being unable to see through her own illusion anymore made her utterly confident in its power. When he asked what she would do if the illusion faltered, she just laughed at the idea. He’d never used magic himself, so maybe the idea was laughable.

  Aoden attempted to keep her inside long enough to work out a signal system to let her know how to react to people, and she humored him for a few minutes, but once it became clear that ‘signal system’ meant ‘invent an entire language based on hand gestures,’ she practically pushed him out of the way in her eagerness to leave.

  Aoden was going to tell the men that Mergau’s throat was so damaged by the poison attempt that, for the time being, she could not speak above a whisper. That plan was thrown out as soon as she stepped out of the tent, shouting back at him that death was preferable to his stupid signal system. Exasperated, and wondering why the hell she wasn’t acting with more caution, he instead told the men that this poor woman, paranoid since the attack, preferred to keep her conversation private, so Aoden would speak to her in Krik for the sake of her confidentiality. The elves ate it up, thinking her delicate, charming, and mysterious before they had even laid an eye on her.

  And did they lay eyes on her.

  Aoden sometimes forgot how beautiful the illusion was when he remembered there was an orc underneath it, but to his comrades, he must look either completely sexless, the highest gentleman, or the epitome of platonic love. While the gentlemanly option might earn him some respect if the soldiers chose to interpret it that way, and the platonic love would strike them as something poetic, the remaining option has never been willingly chosen by a military man, and even elves would look on the attribute unfavorably. However, even if the elves chose the lowliest way to view the situation, that was a blow that Aoden could afford to suffer since Archon Keenas’s visit.

  He had assumed the Archon’s parting words regarding Aoden’s popularity were a throwaway joke, but Keenas understood what sort of influence his apparent favor had. A few elves in the squad seemed to be in literal awe of Aoden. The staunchest of holdouts—those who were expressionless or openly annoyed during their sparring—had given in and now acted friendly towards him. Even couriers coming with orders seemed more cordial than usual.

  Aoden reflected on how far he had come in the months since he had become commander of squad four-one-eight. He had earned the high opinion of his soldiers thanks in no small part to Dorim and Keenas. He felt a camaraderie with his men that he hadn’t felt in decades, learning their passions and trading barbed jokes and mocking their failures without his usual caution and cynicism. Even Tarkin, the transfer sent to replace Garnis, quickly came to understand how things worked regarding his new half-elf commander.

  And then there was Mendoro. They had dueled several more times, all close battles with Aoden barely eking a first strike, after which they would sit down together for a meal and talk for a while. Aoden was slow to apply the word ‘friend’ to any elf—it had taken months to recognize Dorim as such—but he was feeling more and more confident about Mendoro. The elf was young, friendly, graceful, intelligent, and while he didn’t idolize Aoden, he certainly held him in high regard. Aoden returned that regard wholeheartedly.

  Overall, his mood was better than it had been in a good, long while. He was riding so high on this euphoria that he didn’t even see the messenger this time.

  It was still morning, just past breakfast, and the men were preparing for archery practice. Mergau had excused herself to the tent (as she always did when the men were using their bows) and Aoden was listening to Coros and Loom try to out-boast one another, more for the squad’s amusement than actual competition. Aoden’s own bow would perform well enough, certainly better than most humans but easily the poorest among these elves. He was still checking his arrows when the message was thrust under his nose.

  “Archonite Valdon requests your presence,” the messenger said.

  Aoden felt his stomach plummet. “What?” he said.

  “Archonite Valdon requests your presence,” the messenger repeated, shaking the orders. Aoden took them. The messenger turned and trotted off, a dozen other tasks at hand.

  Aoden stared after the messenger. He didn’t even have to look at the orders. It was another relocation. The same orders he had been given dozens of times. He had been expecting them to come, but it hadn’t even been half a year since he was put in command here. It was earlier than anticipated and completely blindsided him.

  He would have to start all over with a new squad. Again. But this time would be a far more bitter experience for he now knew the sweet taste of acceptance. It was like Archonite Valdon had waited for him to reach his peak, just waiting to bring him down.

  He wouldn’t let it go this time. Not after all the good things that happened to him in this squad. This was his squad, and he wasn’t giving it up. He tore the orders to shreds, tossing the fragments to the wind, and went to his tent.

  If anyone knew the procedures for delaying a reassignment, it was him. It had been a while since he had bothered with delay tactics, but it was time to try again. He swept into his tent, stepped over Mergau (reading books while sprawled on the floor as per usual), and grabbed a book on military guidelines from his shelf. Sitting at his desk, he opened it to the section on command structure. He already knew the rule he was looking for, he just needed the exact section number. The right section was easy enough to find; it was already bookmarked and circled on the page.

  He dashed off a note, gave it to Malk with instructions to deliver to Valdon as quickly as possible, then summoned Dorim to his tent. Mergau moved off to her bed, clearing space for what looked to be a busy morning.

  “Transfer orders?” Dorim parroted, taking the paper that Aoden was offering him. “Transferred for what?”

  “This,” Aoden said, pointing to an ear.

  “Haven’t heard this one in a while,” Dorim said dryly.

  “This isn’t me looking for excuses. Why do you think I was transferred here in the first place?”

  Dorim shrugged. “I just thought you had done something incompetent. In all fairness,” he added in response to Aoden look, “I didn’t know you very well then.”

  “Well, I hope you realize that’s not the case. I’ve done nothing to warrant a reassignment. I’ve already sent a request for an eight-day postponement, as is the right of any reassignee. Valdon can’t turn it down. I can use those eight days to explain why the reassignment isn’t in the best interest of the army. If I can do that, the order is overruled.”

  “Sounds simple enough. Who reviews your argument and decides whether to override the order?”

  Aoden grimaced. “The issuing officer, Archonite Valdon.”

  Dorim nodded. “Hmm.”

  “‘Hmm’ indeed. I never said it was a good rule.”

  “And your plan is this?” Dorim asked, looking at the paper in his hand.

  “Only one step of it. It’s a simple petition. If all the men sign it and we forward it to Valdon, it will send a strong message.”

  Dorim looked doubtful. “Will it work?”

  “I’ve never gotten a whole squad to vouch for me before. Potentially yes, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Probably for the best,” Dorim said. “What’s after that?”

  “I’ll worry about that. If you could take care of that petition immediately, I’d appreciate it.”

  “If that’s what you need, then I’ll do it.”

  As Dorim left, Aoden went over to the box he kept on his side table. He kept all his important documents there. It was admittedly lighter than it had been before the original crate was smashed by a certain giant, bu
t the sheaf of documents he was looking for was intact, being bound together and too thick to be easily damaged.

  “What’s the big hurry all of a sudden?” Mergau said, peering over her book as Aoden sat back down.

  “I need to send Archonite Valdon a list of accomplishments,” he said, more to himself than to her. “With this squad, I’ve got thirty flawless patrols on record, two ambushes, and a successful battle with a giant. I can also show a marked improvement in the men’s swordcraft and discipline.”

  “Okay,” said Mergau, regretting her question as she returned to reading.

  “But will that be enough?” he muttered. He bit down on his pen as he thought for something else he could send the Archonite’s way. He pulled out a blank bit of paper and wrote a request for a copy of the bounty collection record for Magragda to be forwarded to Valdon. Aside from that, he had likely gathered everything he could to make his case. “Think, man. Think!”

  He stood and paced. Despite having eight days to put a plan together, his mind was whirling through potential techniques he could employ, documents to send, bylaws he could twist in his favor, anything. He would have to go speak with Valdon in person, but he wanted everything showing his case to be gathered first.

  He remained lost in thought for a good hour before Dorim returned with the petition. Aoden unfolded it to find all twenty-one signatures affixed to the document. He took another moment to marvel at his luck with this squad, then put it with his other documents.

  Over the course of that day and the next, his document pile grew. From records, he drew his archived reports, stacking them next to his bounty claim. Sadly, he didn’t have any diplomatic reports to offer as he hadn’t acted as a translator since Cofus last visited months ago, but Dorim had dropped a hint to Mendoro that a recommendation written for their commander would help them out, which the elf dutifully supplied. It was as eloquent as a poem, and Aoden was both appreciative and impressed.

  A messenger came by late the third day letting Aoden know that Valdon would see him. He grabbed up his accrued paperwork and set out behind the messenger, nodding a quick farewell to Dorim as he went. They made their way to the center of the camp. He passed through the throng of soldiers that made up Archonite’s personal guard. As expected, he received many rude comments from them as he went, but he was intent on ignoring them. He marched up to Valdon’s tent, knocked on the door post, and waited to be called in.

  ***

  Aoden laid down on his bed, putting his hands over his face.

  “Didn’t go well, did it?” said Dorim.

  Aoden dropped his hands to his sides. “Why do I let myself get hopeful, Dorim?”

  Dorim shrugged. “You’re an optimistic idiot?”

  “Not wrong, but also not what I need to hear right now.”

  Dorim shook his head. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I would’ve sworn you had more than a strong enough case, even for a hard-ass like Valdon.”

  “He’s a bigoted pile of trash,” Aoden muttered.

  “I doubt that attitude’s going to help.” Dorim stood up. “There’s got to be something you can do. Your diplomatic role is all about speaking to people and convincing them of things, isn’t it? Bring those skills to bear.”

  “If I could talk Valdon out of being a hateful, powerless little worm, I’d have done it by now.”

  “You really do not like that man.”

  “No. No, I do not.”

  Dorim sighed. “Well, I’ll leave you to think. I’ll handle the squad in the meantime but call for me if you need me.”

  Aoden nodded. Dorim gave Mergau a courtly bow and left the tent.

  Aoden lay there for a few minutes, then stood and left the tent as well. He paced outside, willing ideas to come to him. He racked his brain, but the well of ideas came up dry after being delved into time and time again. What more could be done that he hadn’t thought of already?

  Mendoro was watching him pace from a distance and approached. “Sir?”

  Aoden was on edge and not happy with the interruption. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Dorim told me about the reassignment,” he said.

  Aoden sighed. “That man cannot keep his mouth shut.”

  “We were already suspicious since we saw the vaguely-worded petition and had pieced most of it together from other facts. What I don’t understand is why you felt the need to hide this information from the squad.”

  Aoden ceased his pacing. “Mendoro, can you guess how many years I’ve been in the elven military?”

  Mendoro tilted his head. “A hundred?”

  Aoden laughed. “I’m not even a hundred years old. No, it has only been forty.”

  “You’re a lot younger than I thought.”

  “And can you guess,” Aoden continued, “how many times I’ve been reassigned in my brief military career?”

  Mendoro frowned. “Three?”

  “Try forty-four.”

  Mendoro opened his mouth to speak, made a disbelieving sound, and closed it again.

  “Right?” said Aoden. “And the frequency picked up as my rank increased. Should I even ask you to guess the reason behind these reassignments?”

  Mendoro shook his head. “I think that one I have figured out, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll say it anyway, so there’s no confusion: because I’m a half-elf. I’m not well-liked in the least. Aside from you lot, of course. You’re all good lads.” He paused. “Eventually good lads, anyway. Mostly.” He resumed his pacing. “My previous squads made their dislike obvious, and when they found I had been reassigned, well, things often turned ugly.”

  “Surely it wasn’t that bad, sir.”

  “I have scars that say otherwise.” He rolled up a sleeve on his shirt, revealing a small, jagged mark on his elbow. “That was from a tent pole I was beaten with. Want to wager whether those soldiers were punished for assaulting their former superior officer?”

  Mendoro said nothing, looking deeply disappointed to have been proven wrong.

  Aoden tugged his sleeve down. “Maybe I shouldn’t have thought I’d get the same reaction from this squad, but…” he sighed heavily. “Truth is, I’m scared. No matter how well I’m treated, I can’t help but suspect that all this camaraderie is a façade, that the moment I show weakness I’ll be chewed up and spit out, and frankly that bastard Valdon and his constantly shuffling me around isn’t helping settle my mind.” He looked at Mendoro. “You know, I was hoping to find this out in a more subtle way, but I might not get the chance, so just tell me: why don’t you hate me too?”

  Mendoro’s face made it clear he found the question awkward. He didn’t know how to respond.

  “Be honest with me, please. When you first saw me, did you hate me?”

  Mendoro stared at his commander. They were quiet for a spell, but finally, Mendoro nodded. “I did.”

  Aoden sighed. “Even you, Mendoro?” Mendoro’s face flushed deeply. “What made you change your mind? Was there a moment?”

  “Sir, please,” Mendoro began.

  “This is important, Mendoro,” Aoden interrupted. “If I get transferred again, I need to know what I did that made my men stop hating me and, if not view me as one of their own, at least respect our differences. It would mean the world to me.”

  Mendoro looked down and closed his eyes, appearing to be in pain. He took a deep breath and looked at Aoden again. “It was during Keenas’s demonstration,” he said, his voice monotone, trying to divest himself of the emotions attached to the story. “I still… hated you, then. In my mind, you were an intruder and an outsider and, well, not a real elf. I didn’t think anything of the way I felt. It just seemed right to feel that way. I think I was as dismissive as you say your former troops were. I’d like to think I’m a better man than that.”

  His voice grew thick, the shame of the admission threatening to overwhelm him. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and continued. “When the orders came and we all thought they were for some patrol or other to take us aw
ay from the demonstration, I was saddened. I quickly decided you were to blame, angry that I would have to miss something I might never again get a chance to see. I don’t know why I thought that, but I’m sure it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. When it was revealed that we did not, in fact, have to leave, but that you did, I suddenly had all this resentment directed toward you that I realized was unwarranted. I suppose it highlighted the injustice and unfairness of not only Valdon’s treatment of you, but of my way own thinking as well. It was like a slap in the face when you're desperately trying to sleep. It woke me up.”

  Aoden nodded slowly, then sighed. “I thought it might have been that. Not exactly something I can emulate. While I appreciate hearing the truth, finally, it looks like it doesn’t actually help at all.”

  They were both silent a moment. “Why do you stay here?”

  Aoden chuckled. “Where else would I go? Home? My home is gone. At least my rank protects me to some extent, even if not as much as I would wish. Out among the citizenry? That’s where I’d meet with true, unbridled hatred. Elves just… they just hate me, Mendoro. Like you, I think many don’t even know why.”

  “I promise you that our squad does not feel that way, sir.”

  “But is that true of everyone? What of Ile and Roonun?”

  “I mean generally speaking. Those two are rather sour men.”

  Aoden grunted and stalked back towards his tent. “I’ll give you this: this is a far better squad than any I’ve had the pleasure to lead, but even with everything going better than I had any right to hope there are still those who begrudge me their respect. Even so, I’m not sure I could stomach losing command here, not again. I’ll fight for this squad tooth and nail. I must get Valdon to see things my way.”