A Facet for the Gem Page 12

  His throat’s utter dryness finally revealed itself along with all other bodily hunger in the wave of heat now flooding him. With marionette’s arms, he clamped both hands around one of the awaiting ration skins and hastily undid the tie that sealed it. Pulling it to his mouth, he sputtered violently as each gulp of water washed down the sands of a timeless thirst.

  Urgently undoing another pouch, he chewed handfuls at a time of the sweet boiled oats it contained, speeding them to his stomach with more generous swigs from the water skin that he soon emptied. Finally, his throbbing muscles could move no more. Letting his consciousness slip away, unconcerned by how many hours, or days, had passed, he sprawled out beneath the moon’s offered blanket.

  And behind him, the Dark Mountains sat indignant, no longer holding their potential captive—or the sword they’d guarded for nearly a thousand years, which sparkled so elegantly now, ready at his side.

  Chapter Eight

  The Invited Enemy

  MORLEN SPENT THE next two days trekking back across the Dead Plains, with his cloak drawn against the newly falling snow. But this winter chill was mild next to the cold still clinging to him from the Dark Mountains, and now that he basked in it, he found it less severe, less threatening.

  All mystery was gone this time when he approached the Isle, recoiling slightly as its thick mists swirled to receive him. Warding off a shudder, he let his body sink through, and breathed a sigh of relief when he emerged free on the other side. The dangling apples shone in vain as he passed beneath the trees, but their lost appeal to his appetite was nothing mourned, instead making him more aware of a hunger for things untasted.

  Soon he was met by a radiant outpouring of affection, one he had long taken for granted until feeling it now like soothing ointment over a wound. They were waiting for him—all of them. Hundreds of lions gathered near the Isle’s southern edge, ready to greet and follow as in their first meeting.

  But, he could not do with the permanence of such a welcome, knowing he must soon set out again for a world of decay. They seemed to sense this in him, parting like bright waters to either side while he strode through the woods, though still he felt their potent energies holding close.

  The frost pressed a gentle embrace against the ever-temperate forest, and penetrating flakes decorative and soft like flower petals only made him long for the sleet and sunken steps of the outside. His father worked in the distance with his sword against a whetstone, grinding a razor sheen that reflected a dance of flames beneath it. And when he drew near, neither of them uttered any sound in acknowledgment. They merely stood, as aware of one another now as when many miles had stretched between them.

  “I felt a great presence leave the world, when our backs turned, and you confronted your trial,” said Matufinn. “And I grew afraid when the short number of hours it had once taken me to be turned away from that realm passed, and passed again, and again. But still, even before you returned, I knew”—he looked at him now—“if our paths diverged again, I would never have any reason to fear for you.”

  Matufinn’s pride held him warmly, slightly cheapening the imminent display of his prize. His possession of it, too, seemed already a foregone conclusion. Still, he withdrew the Crystal Blade from its makeshift scabbard at his hip, raising it up with both hands for his father to see.

  But, it was not the weapon itself that drew Matufinn’s wonder, but rather the validation it brought. “It was there,” he said, “just before the dark mists?”

  Morlen nodded, pleased to be providing the answers for once.

  “And,” Matufinn continued, “you saw the other swords? Their swords?”

  Morlen affirmed again with a grin, “All of them.”

  At this, Matufinn’s eyes held him tighter. “All?” he whispered. “Then, that means Morthadus must have returned there at some point.” This weighed heavily on him, though his expression of delight grew much wider. He felt as though he had stood beside Morlen and seen this for himself, knowing too that there was still so much more for them to see. And they would see it, together.

  Morlen nudged the Crystal Blade higher in a discreet gesture to let him hold it, but Matufinn graciously declined.

  “It is yours,” said Matufinn humbly. “You are the most worthy.” A final smile followed in the wake of this, no longer shining down at Morlen, but straight on. “Come,” he said more seriously while Morlen sheathed the sword and retrieved his bow. “We must—”

  But Matufinn stopped short, mouth tightening as though against some knifing pain, and Morlen felt it too, like a thousand locusts clouding his vision. Someone else was inside the Isle, a large number of them. An entire legion, an army, was passing through, moving quickly toward one destination.

  “Felkoth,” Morlen said, knowing Matufinn already understood. But how could he have possibly gained entry, unless… they had been betrayed. He needed not even declare it over the indignation building in his father from the same realization.

  Matufinn boiled, pacing closer toward the invading force. “Veldere. He means to position his entire army there. They’ll fill the city in a matter of seconds, and the Eaglemasters won’t be ready. That is why he never tried to stop me… so I would let them in.” His eyes peered far off, swimming with guilt for the danger he’d inadvertently brought to so many.

  Morlen suddenly had a sneaking notion as to whom Felkoth might have planted within the prisoner group. The image of his disquieting stare unearthed a memory of peril he’d left far behind. Now, it was returning for him, and for what he’d taken, what waited, buried, tantalizing his mind brightly.

  Looking at his father, whose reluctantly returned stare melted from one of triumph and adventure to one of goodbye, Morlen opened his mouth to stop him speaking, but he was too late.

  “Get to the lake, Morlen.” Matufinn’s voice held no panic. “Get to the lake before they do, and do not stop, don’t turn back, no matter what.”

  His own voice still scrambling clumsily as he struggled to stall his father, Morlen found no words as Matufinn darted off, summoning deadly speed toward the enemy horde. Not here… not now. They were going to set out together, begin their journey far off at a place of strategy, in secret.

  The lake would soon be overrun, and to flee the Isle on foot would only invite Felkoth’s servants to track them. But, his father had spurned the notion of retreat altogether. There would be no escape for them both, at least none of Matufinn’s design.

  He started to run along his father’s trail, though it would soon mingle with the tracks of those who wished to torture and kill. He had to catch him, reason with him, before the chance was lost.

  “Swords ready!” belted the leader of a battalion on the army’s flank, marching behind Felkoth within the Isle. The torches they carried through the sunlight were unintended for illumination, and the pounding of their steel-toed boots rose like war drums. “If he shows himself, do not take his head right away. First cut seventy pieces of flesh from him, one for each of ours he’s killed.”

  “It isn’t man that troubles me here,” answered one at his back, glancing nervously around their perimeter into the dense, silent forest. “You’ve heard the stories about them, when they came out long ago, so many…”

  “Dry your skirt!” the leader looked back contemptuously, brandishing his torch. “You know what to do if we come upon them.” He gestured to the round clay vessels slung in sacks over every man’s shoulder, each full of oil with a small hole bored into the top, corked by cloth. “But pray they eat you if one more whimper leaves your mouth, or I’ll light you myself.”

  Mocking jeers broke out on either side of the reprimanded soldier, only to be just as abruptly silenced. “And I’ll cut the tongues from each of you if you don’t quiet down.”

  Their expressions hardened behind him, offering no apologies as all continued forward silently. The overnight reversal of their roles as unchecked slave-drivers to expendable cattle was wholly unwelcome. Power-drunk off of a year’s reign
over all of Korindelf’s people, they shivered now under the sobering call for structured obedience.

  “The king says two dwell here,” the captain continued. “The scum who thought himself worthy to take your wretched lives, a privilege reserved only for me, and a boy, the one who outran you limp fools even as you gave chase on horseback, with the shriekers under your whips. To think, that his blood is worth more to Felkoth than yours.

  “He sends us into this alien realm, and leaves his pets to hold the city,” the captain hissed. “As though there’ll be a soul left to rule over in Korindelf when we’ve sacked Veldere, and roasted the Eaglemasters on spits with their birds. Better to enjoy what sport we can now before none remains, after we’ve made a corpse of the dog who calls this place his home. Better to begin with the young one, see how many flies he can draw strung up from tree to tree as I improve my archery.”

  He let out a loud cackle that those behind him halfheartedly echoed, thinking it their obligation, when suddenly a stout whistling arrow cut it short and hammered through his chest plate. He staggered back in shock as his shaken subordinates sounded the alarm, and the stealthy attacker flew at him from the woods, snatching his torch with a menacing flash. Then the man bolted with it raised like a beacon to draw their fire, all in such a fluid motion they could barely get a glimpse of his bearded face. Battle horns erupted from neighboring ranks as they unleashed copious volleys at the streak of flame near the army’s edge. And they ignored the fallen captain now under their feet, unaware that the wicks of his projectiles had been lit.

  “He’s still in range! Fire!” the other members of the group bellowed at each other. “There! He’s slowing! Fire! Fi—” A quaking blast abruptly muted them, decimating the battalion and spraying the nearby woods with flames. Thick smoke rolled over the legion, driving fear into the concealed soldiers as they sputtered through the toxic haze, unable to get their bearings.

  Their allies waited for them to regroup, shouting into the billowing fumes so those trapped within might hear which direction to follow. At first, they seemed to give calls in response, beckoning more guidance as they neared safety. But then, all at once, they fell silent.

  Willing to wait no longer, the scattered soldiers formed up again as Felkoth’s army pressed onward, its missing forces merely notches carved from the sides. Still, every man scanned apprehensively for any sign of the one who pursued them.

  “He means to divide our number,” said one through gritted teeth, nursing a burn on his neck. “If we separate, we’ll crumble one by one.”

  Then, many heads turned focus just beyond their perimeter. “What’s this?” another grumbled, viewing a round object that appeared at first glance to be an apple hurled at them through the trees, soaring in from above. But as it somersaulted in a bright arc with a burning cloth protruding, they quickly understood what it was.

  Those in its direct path scrambled to avoid the destructive impact, when an arrow flew out from the same location and shattered it yards above their heads. It erupted in a fiery fountain that rained down while they took cover beneath their shields, completely enveloped in the shroud that fluttered lower amid blazing foliage.

  Soon, similar warning cries rang out farther up in the midsection of the force, followed by another explosion and more chaotic shouts, indicating that the entire army was being strategically split up. Coughing raggedly, eyes in searing pain, the disoriented invaders knew they now had no choice but to abandon rank and file, diverging from their intended path. With flickering torches as the only light to guide them out from under the smothering blanket, they forged into the uncharted Isle and whatever snares its troublesome inhabitant might spring.

  Morlen stumbled as the legion’s collective menace singed him like hot coals. Gradually he began to see rising flames through the canopy of trees, and the fire leapt from grove to grove around the smoldering epicenter where the first blows had been struck.

  Felkoth’s army was still dangerously strong—merely bleeding from its wounds, not crippled. There was no more space to observe now; every stride would bring him deeper into the fray, beside sightless dogs that walked with teeth bared.

  And while the thickening plumes drifted closer, he could not help but see ghostly hands take shape, reaching to choke him again. How long would it be before he could look into the dark, and laugh heartily, unafraid? There was no better opportunity than now for him to find out.

  He stepped as though tracking the keenest of deer, though the role of hunter no longer belonged to him here. Many beasts were distressed, fleeing the Isle’s northern stretch that withered in fire. But, he could feel some near, watching him carefully, though the threatening flames kept them at a distance. He only hoped they would have the sense to stay back, or soon there would be no refuge for them.

  Throngs of intruders were close, following the blaring horns in a wayward current he’d have to cross as quickly as the one whose surprise attack they still feared. The nearest wave ambled across, stragglers batting at curtains of ash that clouded their view when he seized his window, lunging out from the trees to whip by the last of their group. Panicked yells summoned a dozen reckless shots that hit the ground long after he’d already passed, and he had no chance to stop, as the next battalion was far more dispersed.

  He slowed for nothing, skirting more bewildered ranks to press through the engulfed forest as apples blistered open with steam overhead. Then suddenly, he careened into someone, one of the soldiers, who slammed to the ground while three others wasted no time swarming in with arrows drawn, and he stumbled to a halt.

  He stood motionless, staring back at his enemies, frozen to the core.

  “Is it him?” one rasped, aiming for his throat.

  Fear shut down his instincts. All training, every lesson counted for nothing in this moment, wiped clean from his existence as he absorbed the intent of those before him and finally had his answer. He was not strong enough.

  They released their volley, and still he could not move, fixed to ground that would taste his death, when a great lion lunged from the trees and growled terribly as the three arrows pierced its ribs and shoulder. His heart wailed, though he had no breath to voice his grief as the sinking creature stubbornly straightened up, turning razor eyes upon all four soldiers who hastily tried to break away. It sprang forth and brought down the middle archer, and the rest fled while it gave chase out of sight.

  A thunderous roar shook the air, unfading as it traveled deeper into the burning woods. And Morlen desperately tried to follow, no matter how far off course it drew him. The deafening rumble parted even the smoke, ringing louder in the truest declaration of courage, stretching into the fire where Morlen could no longer follow. Then finally, the roaring ceased its forward course, resounding in place but slowly falling quiet, until even its echo sank through the soil. And Morlen heard it no more.

  Unable to blame the toxic fumes for his tears, he slowly turned away and focused once again toward his father, who had closed in on the army’s front.

  Matufinn swept aggressively between the scattered invaders, using the smoke to his advantage as scores of troops fired haphazardly into one another. Horns began to sound farther up in the clear, rallying the disjointed forces to one point. Eventually, he knew, they would draw their numbers together again, and the lake sat not three miles off.

  But, he sensed that Felkoth was not intent on departing right away, instead seeking something here in the Isle, and someone: Morlen. Sword drawn, he busied himself no longer with the dizzied ranks that stumbled along his sides, and glided out of the billowing black cloud toward the army’s head. Now, he would have an audience with their king.

  Beyond the smoke, he observed the reduced horde that moved toward him alongside the river, while trailing forces blindly clung to lifelines thrown back by the sound of their horns. Soon they would pass into the lake meadow, where they would fortify their position. Felkoth was obstructed from view, as was the one who led their way, no doubt blanketed withi
n the folds of those ordered to be shields if circumstances required. And indeed they would.

  The time for concealed attack was over. He walked into the open without apprehension, striding on a collision course for the lead ranks, and their eyes widened at his approach.

  “Prepare to fire!” a captain yelled.

  Matufinn pointed his blade at their center, so as to part them on command. “You dogs may leave now, unharmed. I seek only your master.”

  This did nothing to stall them, only hastened trembling fingers to their bows, and their pulses raced as he rapidly advanced.

  “If you insist,” he said, charging with speed that closed their gap so quickly that hardly a bowstring had been plucked when he crashed into them like an axe through wood. He splintered the frontlines into fragments that fell on either side as he struck again, and again, and those bold enough to raise swords against him instilled little confidence in their comrades to follow suit. Fifty spears at his sides dared not even thrust, since his could not be the flesh of man.

  The embattled ranks diverged, soldiers having become mere cattle under his yoke pushed to the trees. He thought of Morlen, seeing the foe who sought his capture in every enemy, and cleared a path closer to the only presence that harbored no fear at his offensive.

  Batting aside a forest of unremembered faces, he came at last to the one he recognized, with glistening scars stretched wide above sweat-drenched brows. And still the man seemed to swell with hope, as powerful as it had been beside him in the prisoner caravan, where, it was clear now, both of them had been quite in disguise.

  Matufinn pointed his blade, having no mind to spare him. “Those scars were well-earned,” he seethed. “Though a weak punishment for your treachery.” The scarred man slowly backed away, silent under his approach.

  But, as he closed on the deceitful culprit, an unseen weapon tore him from his shoulder to the small of his back, its unparalleled sting tainting his blood, which circulated now in a cruel pulse. He lost hold of his sword, and his balance too, though he stood as long as his stiffening muscles would permit. Turning while he slowly fell upon the fast-decaying gash, he looked up to see Felkoth with the Dark Blade dripping red at the end of a broad stroke.