A Facet for the Gem (5 page)

“Felkoth is in the castle,” Nottleforf said heavily. “Today King Feldon has decided to deny him succession to the throne.”

At this, Morlen wondered what misdeed could have poisoned the king against recognizing Felkoth, even after the army’s victory. “But the king is dying, isn’t he?” he asked. “Who inherits the throne if not his son?”

Nottleforf glanced over at the Talking Tree, showing great reservation. “The king wishes to claim the Goldshard, though I strongly advised against doing so, to heal himself with its power so that he may hold death at bay while he reigns over Korindelf. That is why I’ve come. He sent me to obtain it for him.”

With that said, Nottleforf reluctantly reached up into its boughs, and Morlen grieved when the wizard’s ancient fingers wrapped around the elevated treasure, concealing its sheen. Many over the years had tried to pry the relic free, only to be near-deafened by the tree’s unrelenting bellow as its grip tightened. Nottleforf, however, met no such resistance. “It was seen as a great triumph when the kings of old persevered through hardship without taking this for themselves, going to their graves with honor while still it remained for those who followed. This king means to use it to keep him from his own.”

“But…” Morlen stumbled over the words, trying to stall him. “Are you certain you can do this? I thought only the king himself could…”

“The king has given his blessing and trusted me to obtain it strictly for him, and thus it shall be permitted.” He plucked the Goldshard delicately from the gnarled grasp, and a forceful tremor shook the ground beneath them. Morlen’s heart plummeted when the tree immediately withered and retracted back into the soil that had sprouted it, never to be seen or heard again.

But his focus was lured to the soldier who had entered the castle moments before, now hurrying to ride off toward the nearing battalions. The vicinity shook as dozens of horsemen joined with him, and some splintered off throughout other parts of the city. Stationed at the courtyard’s edge, the warriors sat staring up at the castle in expectation.

Morlen absorbed his loss of the only thing that had ever brought hope while realizing how truly lacking he was. Any chance of a fresh start now felt utterly gone.

“Nottleforf,” he said, as though holding down his own bile, “I have nothing. I’ve been nothing, my whole life.”

The wizard, taken aback and remaining silent, lifted his regard away from the soldiers and slowly looked down, feeling Morlen’s pain as if it were his own. And, he finally began to speak the words he’d tried to withhold for so long. “Morlen,” he said, “you… you are—”

But suddenly, he was cut off by a scream of terror from the citadel’s peak. All nearby looked up to see that the king had been hurled from his balcony overlooking Korindelf, flailing downward before he hit the stone base with a nauseating crash. Dreadful cries erupted on all sides, and Felkoth’s soldiers, recognizing their signal, stampeded through the masses, trampling and beating all into submission.

Morlen felt immobilized—Felkoth was taking over Korindelf. “Nottleforf!” he yelled over the rising clamor, “Nottleforf, what do we do?”

But the wizard gave no reply, scanning between Felkoth’s army that closed in around them and the newly-taken relic in his hand, soon to be demanded by the one orchestrating this massacre. Facing Morlen again, he grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, holding out the Goldshard.

“Morlen,” he said urgently, “you must take this.” Morlen kept still, and the wizard held the lustrous object closer while shouting, “Take it, Morlen! Felkoth is coming for it—you must keep it for yourself, away from him!”

Rattled by Nottleforf’s command, Morlen shakily reached out and withdrew it from him, burying its jagged metal against his sweating palm.

Nottleforf calmed after this, yet his voice became grave as he added a warning. “But Morlen, you must not use it, do you understand?” Too shocked to protest, Morlen nodded. “Good.” The wizard breathed a little more at ease. “Now I must get you out of here.”

“But what about them?” Morlen panted, watching those around him trying in vain to flee.

“My abilities are limited, Morlen,” Nottleforf grumbled, still clinging firmly to Morlen’s shoulder. “Our best hope is your departure, now!” They scurried toward the courtyard’s center, where the same soldier they had seen earlier charged at them on horseback, brandishing his sword. Quite unthreatened, Nottleforf raised his hand, and a flame shot from it into the man’s face, blasting him off his horse as he bellowed in agony.

“Get on quickly!” Nottleforf ordered, and when Morlen mounted the fallen soldier’s steed, he paused as Felkoth emerged with the Dark Blade held high.

Now the new king of Korindelf, Felkoth cut down all castle guards in his path and stomped to the spot where the Talking Tree had stood, to claim his prize. Finding both it and the tree already gone, he scowled, eyes darting madly about the chaotic scene before slowly tracking to Morlen, who sat ready to ride with the glittering object secure in his hand.

“Men!” he blared. “The boy! The boy on the horse! Kill him!”

Soldiers on all sides barreled toward Morlen with swords and bows raised. But as they came, Nottleforf squeezed his arm hard with one hand, placed his other on the horse, and the three lifted above the battle.

Morlen’s head swam while summoned winds bore them out of the tumultuous courtyard and away from the city. Then a spark of hope flared as he caught brief glimpses of the Eaglemasters on a rapid course to Korindelf’s aid, though it would be long yet before they arrived.

They rematerialized just outside the channel leading to Korindelf’s open gate, now manned by one of Felkoth’s contingents. After landing with a painful thud, still in the saddle, Morlen looked ahead in fear as thousands of savage creatures bounded toward them with fangs bared, their front ranks only a dozen yards away and closing.

The shriekers lunged, pouncing as one gray wave, but Nottleforf stretched out his arms and thrust forth a wall of light that halted them in their tracks. Snapping viciously, the endless packs pushed harder as the barrier flickered more dimly against their advance, and the wizard groaned, a creaking dam to rushing waters.

“Ride, Morlen!” he thundered. “You know where to go.” And Morlen looked due south, seeing the Forbidden Isle a few miles away.

Not daring to hesitate, Morlen tucked the Goldshard deep inside his inner chest pocket, grabbed the horse’s reins, and kicked it into motion. With one last look at Nottleforf, he galloped off as the wizard called out a final command. “And Morlen, remember—Do not… use… the Goldshard!” His last words echoed like horn blasts, and Morlen sped out of harm’s way, with the Isle lying directly ahead.

Tearing through an open field, he slowed and turned to look back at the city. What would happen to Nottleforf once he could no longer hold the pressing beasts at bay? He watched with cautious relief when the Eaglemasters reached Korindelf and swooped down into it like a bursting storm cloud. But then he gasped as they emerged in fewer numbers with each pass, descending so low that they made themselves open targets. And Felkoth’s troops brought them down with precision, taking advantage of their fruitless attempt to distinguish friend from foe while the formation grew smaller, more disjointed with every minute.

Then suddenly, droves of men on horseback began to appear in the distance, pouring out of Korindelf behind countless shriekers that sprinted on hands and feet, no longer restrained from following his trail. He shot onward with double haste, knowing Felkoth’s servants were coming for him.

His horse’s breathing was becoming labored, and soon even the sharpest prod of his boots brought no change of pace. Looking back to see how close the enemies were, he realized with dismay they would be upon him in minutes. They had even commenced firing, hitting the ground only a few yards behind, and as his murky destination still lay far out of reach, he unslung the bow from his shoulder and gripped it tightly in one hand.

Gradually the archers gained enough to place him in range of their arrows, which fell like a deadly rain on all sides. Then, despite his carefully improvised swerves to deny them any fixed target, a well-placed shot pierced the horse’s hind leg and sent it slamming into the ground with a cut-off scream. He was hurled forward, tumbling painfully through wet grass.

As he rolled to a stop, he looked up in a panicked daze to see that two shriekers had broken away from the rest of the pack and were careening toward him. Smelling the animal’s spilt blood, they charged for the kill, drooling mouths agape. With all his arrows now loosely scattered, he scrambled to pick one up and frantically loaded it, firing at the bony assailant in front, which yelped shrilly with a punctured lung before falling. He had scarce time to prepare for the second that leapt over the fallen horse. Knifelike claws extended to impale and dissect him as he knocked its head back with a shot to the throat, and its dead weight flattened him.

With its sickeningly slick pelt stretched over a tall, nearly human frame, the putrid carcass sagged on top of him despite his furious struggling until, with a desperate gasp, he broke free. The others, equally menacing and disfigured, were closing from fifty yards at most, and the men on horseback followed. He had no choice but to run now, and though his only possible refuge was at least one mile away, he sprinted against every sore tendon and spreading stitch.

The lethal downpour was all around him, and failing muscles begged him to submit to what only sheer chance could delay. What was the use of even trying to get beyond the Isle’s dense vapors, when all others had found them to be impenetrable?

It was someplace new, he thought. And if he actually got there, no one could say he did not belong. He would be past the confines of what so many people had told him he was, and would finally get to explore the other side. Or die trying to get there.

With this fresh solace in mind, heavy limbs and depleted air were replenished tenfold, and his eyes lit up like embers. Felkoth’s men pressed in, seconds away from shooting a thousand holes into him, and the lead shriekers were raring to devour his riddled corpse. They unleashed their volley, but then watched in confusion as every arrow pierced nothing but soil while he suddenly sprang out of reach, surpassing even their own rate of gain.

Morlen’s extremities became blurred, and his rapidly moving feet seemed not to even touch earth. The blue mists for which he forged were close now, rising hundreds of feet high, and he could do no more than hope that once he reached them, he would be able to pass through. Bolting forth with one last surge of energy, he took a deep breath and then plunged headfirst, disappearing into the billowing bright fog.

The soldiers witnessed this with a shudder, and the shriekers nervously skidded to a halt a safe distance away. Those on horseback maintained full pursuit, thinking that they too would be able to breach the confounding borders, but it was as though they slammed into a rock wall, and all were thrown violently to the ground.

Screaming in disgrace, they cursed the boy who had eluded them, the boy who held what their master wanted. The thought of returning to him empty-handed filled them with dread, as his wrath would be terrible. But now, they had no other option.

Felkoth’s boots sloshed in the reddened fields of Korindelf, littered with bodies of fallen Eaglemasters and their fearsome birds. He wished that Valdis could have been among the dead, but had watched him lead the airborne retreat, undoubtedly knowing the dire consequences that any future trespass would elicit.

Outside the city gate, he stood surrounded by many packs of shriekers whose stained jaws were briefly appeased, while the people of Korindelf who had not fallen prey to them were locked away, now enslaved to expand his realm. He awaited the return of his prize, as well as what little might be left of the thief who had stolen it, and cast hateful regard on the one standing before him bound in chains, who had helped the boy escape. Nottleforf was breathing heavily, greatly taxed from holding so many at bay until the soldiers had emerged and seized him.

“What shall I do, Nottleforf?” he said with playful disdain. “Now, when I am finally king, you give what is mine to a mere boy? I would relish cutting that meddlesome tongue in two, and watching the rest of you slowly wither. But look at what you did to poor Nefandyr. Surely he deserves his revenge as well, wouldn’t you agree?”

Nottleforf glanced at the soldier he’d blasted with fire, whose horse Morlen had used to get away, holding his blistered face tenderly. The man’s eyebrows were singed off, and his scalp was red and peeling beneath a hairline that seemed to have permanently receded. “I think the look suits him well,” he answered.

Screaming in anger, the lieutenant leapt forth with sword raised, but Felkoth held him back upon seeing that the legions he’d sent out were finally returning. He strode swiftly to them, trying in vain to glimpse the Goldshard and the one who had taken it. “Where is it?” he demanded violently. “Where is the boy?”

One man dismounted and reluctantly approached, his radiating fear needing little elaboration. “My lord,” he whispered, “the boy escaped. Into the Isle.”

Felkoth glared with disbelief. Tasting deprivation again, he released a grunt of outrage and took off the man’s head, then spit in disdain as the lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Escaped? Where none but a select few had ever come and gone? He turned to Nottleforf, nostrils flared. “I swear to you—I will drain every drop of the slime that flows through your veins if you do not answer me. The boy… who is he?”

Nottleforf showed no hint of fear whatsoever, letting his body meld with the air, and the shackles binding him fell in a clanking heap as he began to drift weightlessly, carried on a gust toward the West. His voice resonated like the wind itself:

“The last son of Morthadus was mine to protect, and he goes where you cannot:

Where worldly snares have no effect, where wars are never fought.

So seek what spurns your reaching hand, and you may find no rest

Till he returns upon this land, from within the Isle of the Bless’d.”