A Facet for the Gem (17 page)

Taking advantage of a brief gap between assaults, Felkoth rallied his archers frantically to load their bows, waiting for the next approach. “Fire!” he yelled with rage, the command sending up a thousand arrows that merely drooped in a pitiful arc as their intended targets responded with devastating precision.

He was trapped, and his wary head darted around to see dozens of corpses strewn within a slowly crumbling legion, those who still lived crouching beneath heavily dimpled shields. He could inflict no damage like this, not while Valdis and his buzzing flies held such a superior position. But, suddenly aware of the tactical potential posed by the rows of structures along his perimeter, he grabbed hold of the nearest battalion leader. “Burn the houses!” he commanded. “Burn everything now!”

Ducking low to avoid another volley, the soldier shook his head in confusion. “My lord, we dropped our torches before coming through, we’ve nothing to light—” but Felkoth snarled as he retrieved a bow from its fallen owner as well as his sling of oil pots. After hurling them through the doorway of a nearby house to smash all over its stone floor, he shot a steel-tipped arrow to scrape a trail of sparks through the combustible liquid until it burst into flame, tongues of hungry fire crawling up the wooden beams.

“There’s your torch!” Felkoth fumed, shoving the battalion leader violently toward the engulfed hut. “I don’t care if your arms and legs get charred to stubs—I’ll light you myself if every house in this village isn’t a hill of smoke by my next breath!”

Nodding to conceal his shaking, the captain collected his troops and ushered them to the growing blaze, though many fell prematurely as the Eaglemasters gleaned Felkoth’s strategy and took immediate action. All who dodged the relentless downpour ignited their own fire pots and cast them upon neighboring structures, until soon the occupied town square swam with smoke that jutted a swirling needle into Valdis’s ranks.

“All of them! Burn all of them!” Felkoth shouted as adjacent buildings went up in flames, standing more at ease under the canopy that brought each hammering burst from the airborne fleet to a halt. Now they would have to fly through the blinding haze, well within range of his bows, to continue their onslaught. “Arrows ready!” he called out wrathfully, eager to confront those bold enough to breach the makeshift ceiling.

His soldiers stared upward at the gray dome’s center with bowstrings drawn tight, waiting with bated breath to pierce any flesh that entered. Without warning, a turbulent wind swept through from behind them, driven by the wings of at least five hundred, and the accompanying riders promptly felled entire lines at a time with blankets of suppressing shots. But dozens of them were unseated by well-aimed arrows from below, plummeting dead as their departing comrades eviscerated the smoky curtain. It remained open just long enough to provide another opportunity for clear fire, which the Eaglemasters used to full advantage before the heavy plumes resealed.

Felkoth seethed, his shield now riddled with arrow tips, hundreds of his swordsmen lying dead beside a meager handful taken from above. They thought he would be defeated? They thought he’d collapse soon enough under their heel? They knew nothing.

“Valdis!” he howled toward the dark barrier. “Coward, dismount your spectator’s seat and come face me, and let it be decided who the true king is!”

High above the rising partition, Valdis pressed the Crystal Spear firmly to his side like a knight at joust, no hesitation in him as he prepared to lead the charge.

“Father, let
me
go,” implored Verald with a steady hand upon his sword. “I’ll finish him quick and clean. Well… quick.”

“No,” Valdis answered, leaving no room for debate. “You follow me, and circle closely with the others to ensure I’m not disturbed, until every one of his men lies broken. I’ll take him in five hits, and rejoin you. Understood?”

All three sons stared back in silent protest, disdainful of his resolve to deny them the task they’d each gladly spare him, though none doubted he could accomplish it. Nodding once in a plain show of his station and nothing more, Verald acknowledged the orders.

“Good,” said Valdis curtly, ready to fly as his mighty carrier cupped the wind. “Besides,” he said with a reassuring smile, “an Eaglemaster is deadlier on the ground than in the sky.”

He reared back to spur Clodion forth with the Crystal Spear thrust up as a beacon for all to follow into the fray, when a rising commotion suddenly stalled him. “Look!” he heard several shout in disbelief, summoning his attention toward a distant swarm whose size surpassed theirs: the mountain eagles, unmanned, at the head of which flew one unmistakable to any warrior.

“Roftome the Untamable flies to war!” they hailed as the greatest of all birds shot past their flank. Thousands of wild eagles flocked along his path, and they broke through the cap of smoke shielding the enemy horde that shrank from them in fear, hearing unavoidable doom in a ringing chorus.

Roftome wove seamlessly through haphazard waves of arrows while all who fired dispersed at the sight of his outstretched talons. But no man got far as his brothers and sisters crashed upon those beyond his immediate reach, every section of the invading army falling beneath the same terrible shroud.

Felkoth sprinted as close to the flames as possible to avoid the eagles’ main concentration, his potently deadly Dark Blade swiping down any that drew near. He stopped to withdraw the last clay oil pot from the sling at his side, holding its cloth wick to the inferno’s edge. Then, waiting while the lit fuse crept toward the round vessel’s opening, he lunged out and hurled his projectile into the winged masses, on whose stout backs it shattered, spilling liquid fire that engulfed six birds and his own screaming soldiers beneath them. Still, this was a weak vengeance for the unforeseen delay of his conquest. He had to get out, now, before the eagles had less prey to chase.

Screeching mournfully at the morbid conflagration, Roftome latched his gaze onto the malicious fire-thrower whose blade dripped with the blood of eagle-kind, and bolted out toward him. With honed reflexes, Felkoth sheathed his sword and withdrew a sharp dagger, planting himself with legs apart to wrangle the charging beast.

His spread wings dwarfing his target, Roftome pounced with a forward thrust of his heavy skull to deliver shattering death. But Felkoth narrowly dodged the blow sideways while filling his hands with thick neck feathers, and pulled himself up to a mounted position, jabbing his knife’s point into the eagle’s back.

Enraged far beyond caring about the open gash his would-be master had inflicted, Roftome flipped hard off the ground, soaring in a great spiral with as much speed as he could muster. Felkoth clung tightly atop him, sticking his flesh repeatedly with the knife to spur him away as his dying men wailed for help.

Roftome wanted blood, entrails, anything he could tear from this foe who still rode him despite his most violent efforts to shake free, careening higher with each tormenting prod until they were beyond the smoke-draped city walls. He unleashed every maneuver in his arsenal—rolling, plummeting, speeding upside down. But each time he attempted such tricks or deviated from a steady course, he received another dizzying cut, forcing him along a consistent path while they left the city farther behind.

Hearing cries of two wild eagles in pursuit, Felkoth knew he hadn’t escaped completely unseen, though it was doubtful the Eaglemasters would realize his absence until long after the battle’s end.

Roftome maintained a smooth trajectory under a painstaking guise of obedience, hoping this would lead his foul rider to become more relaxed, till he suddenly broke course and spun hard sideways, brimming with outrage as unwelcome arms continued to constrict him. Deeper stabs goaded him forward as he released an earsplitting whistle, which, though no man had ever won words from him, still conveyed the shrillest contempt.

Soon the forest where the long-horned savages had once dwelt spread low in the distance, and his parasite pushed him toward it as the two following birds drew closer. The blade slowly dug into his neck, threatening death if he did anything but land safely, quickly, within the dense shelter. In his descent, he saw only one opportunity, one chance to disobey and break apart, which he would gladly die taking.

The knife stabbed deeper, spurring him forward. Drained from each cruel cut, till the dawn revealed emerald fields peppered by a trail of blood that trickled from his feathers, Roftome descended toward the forest roof. He hoped only that he would have strength enough to rip out his deeply rooted flea, and limp away as long and far as he could, free, with dignity reclaimed.

He dashed ahead, despite harshly disapproving knife prods, through snapping foliage and into a thick branch that ripped his flesh and dislodged the reviled passenger, who managed one last long slice as he tumbled off. Collapsing wing-first against the snowy floor with a sickening crack that yanked from him a high-pitched cry, Roftome rolled sluggishly onto his butchered back. His white downy head turned left, then right, trying to glimpse a sky that had all but vanished, leaving only speckled patches that now felt too far out of reach.

But, basking in a shower of irate growls from the enemy he’d finally unseated, he waited with a defiant glare that burned the failed conqueror who stood over him, a bloody gash across his cheek.

“Filthy mountain vermin,” Felkoth hissed, replacing his dagger to draw the Dark Blade once again. He aimed its point directly at the eagle’s heart, clasped the grip tightly with both hands and raised it high, savoring the moment.

And Roftome the Untamable lifted a firm beak, lying quiet, without fear, under the imminent final blow.

Chapter Eleven

Friend

M
orlen awoke with
a jolt in the blankets of his makeshift bed, and silence from the adjacent tunnels indicated the hour was quite early. Fumbling groggily through his coverings, he searched for any sign of a stowaway insect, feeling a faint sting that gradually began to throb along his neck. But, regaining his faculties, he realized this accompanied his growing sense that something familiar approached above the surface, or rather, someone.

“Felkoth…” he whispered, baffled as to how the Tyrant Prince could have ventured so far beyond the ambush prepared by the Eaglemasters. At last he had what he needed to prevail. Now was the time. Now he would stand up and be strong, unafraid, and defeat him as he should have done within the Isle.

He donned his boots and cloak hurriedly, not even thinking to bring his sword as he rushed through the entrance passage, bolstered by the Goldshard against his chest. He swung both panels open above, revealing dawn’s silver sheen into which he exuberantly emerged, and charged through an ice-laden forest toward the intruding presence.

A piercing call rang out unlike any sound he’d ever known, echoing with such distress, such pain. Stamping urgently through snow, he knew it was one of the eagles, and the ensuing silence stabbed deeper with the same sting that had awoken him.

Finally he stormed through a cluster of trees, seeing Felkoth, bruised and torn, poised menacingly with the Dark Blade over a sprawled-out eagle whose crooked wings spanned at least twenty feet. Its reddened chest puffed determinedly despite many wounds along its side.

As though interrupted by a hiccup, Felkoth brought the sword to his side while casting all interest now upon Morlen. “You…” he said, arm outstretched, fingers clenched as though around his adversary’s throat. “The boy who escaped Korindelf… not so scrawny now as when I last saw you.” His voice cut with a chill as he smiled at Morlen’s lack of any weapon. “You must have turned to the Goldshard by now. And to transform yourself into such a formidable specimen. How wise a choice,” he mocked. “What a fuss you brought, taking my prize. So many in Korindelf who could have lived, who would’ve obeyed instead of dying, had it not been for your thievery. And if this is truly the extent to which you’ve used it,” he said, pointing the Dark Blade rigidly at Morlen’s gut, “I’ll have you spilt across the snow alongside this one in two seconds’ time.” He gestured at the flattened eagle, whose head blurred into the white carpet, leaving visible only its beak and blazing eyes that now locked on Morlen.

“Lay down your sword,” replied Morlen, feeling clad in impenetrable armor as his full heart tapped at ease against the weapon in his possession, “and I’ll persuade the Eaglemasters to give you a quick death.”

Felkoth scoffed at Morlen’s very existence, lunging out to flay him limb from limb as he stood still, trusting that he’d been empowered to win this contest. But as he watched Felkoth approach for the kill, throes of panic began to set in, when suddenly a thunderous crash froze them both in their tracks. Two wild eagles burst down through the trees and viciously hurled Felkoth out of view with taxing swipes, and Morlen could hear him scurrying back to his feet, fleeing northward through the woods while they pursued closely from above.

As if bolted to the ground, he waited for all sounds of the chase to gradually fade, and the eagle lay low while he strode closer. All power he’d observed in the Isle’s fearsome beasts was momentarily swept from memory by its penetrating gaze.

He’d never seen such an embodiment of lethality, nor such strength in fear’s place, and knew any physical approach was foolhardy as he beheld the godlike creature. Considering his already dangerous proximity, he merely stood, careful not to blink as he offered a sympathetic mien to one that would offer nothing so easily.

“You are wounded,” said Morlen, thinking of few worse fates than for such commanding wings to lie broken on dirt and ice.

Looking up at the one who knowingly stood where talons and beak could still manage a final thrash, Roftome’s instinctual defenses slowly withdrew in the face of such open surrender. His deep voice transcended the predatory calls of his kind to man’s plane of communication for the very first time. “I know that.”

“Do you wish to be helped?” asked Morlen, encouraged that the eagle was not immediately inclined to repel him.

“Do you wish to help me?” The words held an innate cynicism Morlen dared not underestimate.

He nodded, oblivious to any alternative. “Yes.”

Roftome strained to lift his head a few inches, studying him keenly. “Why?”

Morlen knelt at eye level to ease the creature’s appraisal of him, aligning his neck with its unstoppable claws. “Because,” he answered, “since that man was prevented from killing you, it would be a shame to let your wounds finish the job, or the snow if it works faster.” He held the eagle’s stubborn face in his sights, refusing to stray.

Roftome stared back, waiting for a subtle tremble, any telltale sign of concealed intent that could be unearthed by his threatening scrutiny, but none came. Begrudgingly he acknowledged the offer of aid. “What would you do?”

Pleased by this progress, Morlen answered, “I know someone who lives in these woods. Someone powerful, of many arts and skills. I will take you to him, if you permit me, and I’ve no doubt he will be able to repair your wing and sew your wounds with the greatest care.”

Roftome snapped a ridiculing beak at his proposal. “You will take me?” he mocked. “How?”

Unfazed by the eagle’s disbelief, Morlen replied matter-of-factly, “I will carry you.”

Roftome did not jeer this time, looking at Morlen now without trying to gauge his ability or ascertain any foul play, only trying to understand. “What do you want?” he asked plainly, far more curious than accusing.

“What do you mean?” said Morlen, knowing time was running short as a blanket of red spread over the eagle’s bed of snow.

“I mean what do you want, with me?”

“I want to help you fly again, instead of leaving you here to die.” Morlen set his jaw firm.

For many long breaths, Roftome lay quiet, focusing on Morlen with greater suspicion, though relinquishing his acerbic tone. “You would carry me?”

Morlen rose tall, nodding again. “Yes,” he declared. “And I’ll see no predator finds you without finding me first, and no ice freezes you without freezing me.”

Roftome gave no indication he intended the least bit to be moved. Yet the man lingered still, silently inquiring for an answer, until finally, he cast aside all misgivings, nodding in acceptance.

Elated they’d reached terms, Morlen wished to give in to optimism that the most difficult task was done. But, beginning to truly take in the eagle’s immensity, his enthusiasm quickly melted to desperate hope that he could keep from choking on his words. Fearful that any jostling might stir the pained creature into a frenzy that left them both in need of rescue, he crouched and set reluctant sights on its black, gleaming talons, despite his best efforts to find a better anchor point.

“Can you move at all?” he asked with calm patience, trying to instill the same in his potentially volatile cargo.

Barely able to lift his head, Roftome needed not reply. Morlen breathed out slowly, realizing he’d have to lever the great beast up in a flipping motion, though his own body was the size of its abdomen alone. He removed his long hooded cloak, shivering through chill winds while he tied the top and bottom of it securely to either hand, bringing the center portion of its slack to the eagle. “Bite down on this as hard as you can,” he said through chattering teeth, bunching up a thick wad before the deadly beak.

Looking up at him questioningly, but with guarded trust, Roftome kept silent for a few moments, wondering what pains his carrier planned to inflict that his beak would have to be stuffed. But, seeing the way his hairs stood so defensively upon arm and leg in absence of protection, Roftome took what was given, clamping a spine-crushing hold on the thick garment.

Morlen tugged hard in response, ensuring the grip was tight. “Good,” he said, easing as seamlessly as he could into harsher proceedings. “Now,” he began, trying not to sound grave, “the ice will have numbed you somewhat, but there will be more pain for this next part. I’m going to lift you up as gently as I can, and you must latch onto my shoulders when I say so. Understood?”

Almost relieved to be gagged under such alien measures of consideration, Roftome bit visibly harder on the makeshift strap, indicating his preparedness.

Morlen then turned his back to the giant raptor and walked slowly forward with legs apart on either side, both arms wide as the slumping cloak grew taut. Each labored pace pulled the eagle’s body upward to fold in on its lower half, which remained dug-in, almost resembling a crude catapult that would snap under strain. Then, he clenched his muscles to hold steady while squatting low, and locked himself in place against both wide, golden-brown feet, knowing the eight jutting talons could bleed him dry with the slightest shift. “All right,” he said with steaming breath and no small sense of apprehension. “Hold on.”

Bracing for both shoulder blades to be promptly fractured, Morlen remained intact as bladelike claws fastened beside his neck, while two more jutted into his ribs. With his elbows pointing down, he hoisted the eagle’s body as far forward as he could manage while his thighs propelled them out, heaving the eagle’s tremendous weight off its snowy deathbed to drape over his upper back.

Feet crunching through the precarious frost surface with each step, Morlen swayed forward dangerously and struggled to stabilize himself as the eagle’s wings hung like curtains on either side. Eventually he slowed to a sustainable pace, fighting to disregard the fiery twinges he sensed in the eagle, who still pressed no disapproving scratch upon him.

Unable to pivot, Morlen lifted one leg at a time gingerly around a wide radius to face the way he’d come, pulling tightly down on his cloak that centered the teetering bird over his bent back. “Well,” he groaned, hoping conversation might lure their minds elsewhere, “I can understand why Felkoth must have chosen you. I’ll wager you’re not of common stock among your kind.”

The eagle remained slumped without uttering a sound, its head a guiding mast out in front. Its chest sagged heavily onto him, undoubtedly limiting air intake, but even so, a full voice rumbled down to Morlen’s core. “He is not the only one who chose me,” it replied, keeping the cloak hooked against its lower beak while the upper flapped softly.

“No, that would not surprise me,” said Morlen, laboring to hold his mind off each bone-shaking step. “And you’re not the only one he’s tried to rule, though perhaps one of the few he couldn’t.”

He felt his own blood begin to trickle down through a freezing sheen of sweat. Cursing the light running distance for one man that now may as well have been an acidic marsh, he devoted all concern to the heart that beat like a hammer to his skull, and let hope for its uninterrupted pulse be his only fuel forward.

“You fought in that battle, then?” he asked, short of breath. “You flew against him, for King Valdis?” The pounding grew stronger now, like a sharp rebuke as the eagle stirred, and he swiftly shifted his hands to steady the tipping weight before it toppled them.

“I serve no king,” Roftome declared with muffled indignation. “I flew out because, though the city men offend me, they take only those who trust and go willingly. But, he who came to the city last night… he takes all.”

Morlen grimaced, knowing how easily he’d let Felkoth escape, deferring to two birds of prey the task that had been laid so opportunely before him. Why did he hesitate, as though stalled by some familiar haze? He was strong enough to defeat Felkoth now, and always would be, under the Goldshard’s influence. Perhaps his mind simply hadn’t yet adjusted to the new power that had been seared so abruptly into him.

“What are you called, by the other city men?” Roftome inquired bluntly.

The smallest chuckle escaped Morlen’s lips under building pressure that threatened to pop his lungs. “The other city men… called me… many things,” he wheezed. “None of which… I would now repeat. But, you can call me Morlen, friend.”

Roftome tilted his head downward, thinking a closer look might help him better hear what was said. “What did you call me?” he asked.

Stamping the weight of four men through each narrow, snowy path, Morlen grunted, “What… friend? You understand it, don’t you?”

Roftome’s sight lifted up again as he gave no answer, looking out on the bouncing white landscape beneath which he would have now been smothered and forgotten if not for this human. And Morlen held their course, snarling through each caustic exhalation that only made him want to stop and rest, after which, he knew, both of them together would not continue.

Desperate not to lose his dwindling momentum, he drove on with a surge that would flatten him in a matter of minutes, realizing he did not need to endure longer than that as they’d surpassed the halfway mark. They were now merely a hundred feet or so from the hive of refugees and the opening of his quarters, where Nottleforf dwelt close by. “Hold steady now,” he panted, doubling his efforts in a final march that would see him either reach his destination or crumple short of it with ruptured organs.

As his faculties began to recede, Roftome shivered as the pressing cold overwhelmed his draining life’s blood, which still trickled out through a dozen stab wounds. He bit down on his carrier’s cloak with a laughable force that any captive fish would surely escape unharmed.

Morlen felt the eagle’s rapid faltering, too, and moved forward while clutching the dangling garment tight in his fists, steering through camouflaged contours that threatened to bring them down. His lower spine shot one blinding flash after another behind wind-burnt eyes, and he kept them open only because the tall oak above his chamber finally came into view. He could not stop… not yet; the eagle had but minutes left.

His feet scuffed the ground with each pitiful stride, leaving not foot prints but long tracks, and he could not even lift his head. His thighs and calves lost their ability to anchor and navigate simultaneously, throwing him ahead on feet that would no longer hold him, till his only remaining option would be to dive as close to safety as he could.