A Facet for the Gem

For
Grams

Contents

Chapter One: Mole

Chapter Two: The Eaglemasters

Chapter Three: The Tree and the Goldshard

Chapter Four: In The Forbidden Isle

Chapter Five: Lady Valeine

Chapter Six: The Missing Prisoner

Chapter Seven: The Crystal Blade in the Dark Mountains

Chapter Eight: The Invited Enemy

Chapter Nine: The Gem

Chapter Ten: Roftome the Untamable

Chapter Eleven: Friend

Chapter Twelve: The King’s Fear

Chapter Thirteen: Father of Fathers

Chapter Fourteen: Blade Meets Spear

Chapter Fifteen: The Second Battle of Korindelf

Chapter Sixteen: A Roar for Bloodsong

Chapter Seventeen: Farewells

About the Author

Chapter One

Mole

M
orlen tasted nothing
but smoke as he forged through the woods, straining for a look at the destruction beyond. He emerged to see a toxic shroud approaching from the border that guarded Korindelf’s lands against enemy invasion, and could not be certain whose side burned. Still, he felt no worries over friends and family as most would on this day. His lack of both was a luxury now.

He traveled on the edge of a horse-drawn cart laden with skins and venison slabs that would sell handsomely in a city fearing siege. An agitated whinny protested the exposure to floating flakes of soot, but regardless, the northerly-moving curtain could bring much-needed concealment when the other boys came after him.

Surveying as far as present conditions permitted, he tried to glimpse the blockade of fortresses that edged the Dead Plains, but the spreading plumes must have enveloped it hours before. Korindelf’s horns would likely sound tomorrow, blaring either to celebrate the army as it marched back in triumph, or to warn of the horde it had failed to repel.

Often he dreamed of fighting the beasts that plagued the world of men. He hoped valor could wash clean the shameful reputation that had followed him for all of his sixteen years growing up in the city. But most in Korindelf would lock themselves behind its walls if the border was breached, and their admiration would be short-lived if he made a stand outside. He would slip in, trade his goods, and slip out again, wishing them the best of luck.

Urging the horse onward, he peered at his cargo. Every cut of meat was secured in rabbit pelts and twine, which would ward off flies for hours. Whether he could hold larger pests at bay remained to be seen, and he ran one hand up the soft yet leathery length of his deerskin quiver, thumbing the feathered ends of the arrows it held.

His white ash bow was marked by an indelible smudge where a hand larger than his own had gripped it many times, and it looked modest compared to others. But not once had he envied his fellow hunters their weapons, instead reading the foreign fingerprints smeared onto his only rightful possession as a tale left deliberately for him, and no other. Passed down from a father he’d never known, it offered volumes about adventure and toil, pursuit and loss, and all that had led up to his own life of dodging scornful eyes.

A violent disturbance of crows at the forest edge soon made him uneasy, and he ducked while glancing back toward the commotion.

“Mole!” came the familiar call, his adoptive name in circles where the loudest voice was most persuasive. “What ditch have you run off to now?”

“Careful calling him that,” joked another. “He may transform and crawl up your trousers.”

Morlen could make out at least five or six carriages maybe thirty yards behind, and kept head and shoulders low while imploring the tall grass to guard his course. But a wake of drooping stalks could soon betray him.

“He left in such a hurry, I’d almost think he caught something he didn’t want to share,” taunted the first boy.

Morlen envisioned the fresh start that his haul could purchase: his meager knife cast aside for a modest dagger; perhaps a rugged old horse, not borrowed like this one, nor quite as gaunt; a winter cloak, moth-eaten but warm. Such a trade could send him far on his own way, now that he finally had more cause to take his chances out on the frontier than reside in Korindelf. A full day’s journey stretched between his goods and any suitable offer, though another bargain would come much sooner now, one he was most unwilling to make. Swiveling forward, he whipped the reins against the horse’s ribcage, though worried that the wagon’s creaking axles divulged his path through the haze. But if they wanted what was his today, catching him would simply be the beginning.

“That’s him!” shouted one of the boys. “I’d know that squeaking anywhere.”

“Come back, Mole!” their leader continued to mock. “You know better than to sneak off like that, before we’ve taken our fill.”

“How big a kill do you think he has there, Jathidd?” asked another.

“Well,” Jathidd laughed, “you’ve all heard what Mole does in the wild—crawls up so close behind the deer he’s got their stink dripping brown and wet off his head before they hear him coming, and then it’s too late. I’d wager he knocked off a full-antlered stag just to get cozy with a doe.”

“I heard from another camp that he walked right through a herd,” one more joined in. “And none of them ran away, like he wasn’t even there. And the hunters watching didn’t shoot… like they were afraid of what he’d do.”

“Afraid of Mole?” Jathidd scoffed. “He’s nothing to be concerned about. Though, I remember one night about three years ago he kicked me right between my legs, and the next morning I sprouted hair down there.”

Morlen risked shattering his flimsy cart to pieces if he maintained the current pace, and they rode in sturdy vehicles led by animals that his own couldn’t hope to match. But there were other options.

“Anyone spot him?” a boy rasped in the enclosing smoke. “Sounds like he’s slowing now.”

“I can hardly make out your lumpy gut spilling onto your lap,” said Jathidd. “Did you see that walking carcass he drove out from Korindelf? It’ll collapse by midday, no question. Then Mole will be the first to greet whoever survived that battle down there,” he nodded toward the engulfed South. “Maybe he’ll give us some warning if they couldn’t hold the shriekers back this time.”

“His squeals could be louder than theirs,” one chuckled. “Korindelf’s watchmen won’t need to sound the horns.”

“Don’t joke about them,” scolded another. “What if they actually broke through the blockade? All of them! They’d claw their way into the city before anyone could push them back. Imagine having to see them up close—taller than men, gray and slimy, with hands that could take your head off and jaws to fit around it.”

“The Eaglemasters would come rain fire down on them before that happened. Korindelf would be under siege for a day at most, and we’d have seats to watch it all happen.”

“The Eaglemasters were probably in the heart of the South fighting, like Korindelf’s men! Maybe there aren’t any of them left to help. And even if there are, how are they supposed to see anything from up high through all of this?”

“An Eaglemaster is deadlier on the ground than in the sky,” replied Jathidd. “I expect they’d recruit the city’s best to join them on foot, and throw out the lot of you as decoys. They might even find a use for Mo—”

Two rough slices against leather and a ringing snap suddenly interrupted, followed by a yell on their flank. “I’ve been cut loose!” alerted the rightmost of the group, struggling to hold the reins that soon slipped away as his horse left him behind. Quick footsteps running around their perimeter sent all heads darting in vain to glimpse the culprit, and one strike after another scattered the team away from Jathidd, whose transport was the last left intact.

Charging past his hindered companions, Jathidd homed in on the whine of old spinning axles and came to Morlen’s cargo and horse, which were unattended. Unable to detect anyone nearby, he climbed down to sift through every fat parcel, when an arrow zipped with a resonating thud into the wooden frame inches below his hand. Slowly turning his head while keeping the rest of his body rigid, Jathidd traced the projectile’s visible path through the murk and saw Morlen stepping closer, smoke sealing behind him while he drew his bowstring for another well-aimed shot.

“I’m leaving; do you understand?” Morlen’s voice deepened threateningly. “I’m taking what’s mine to Korindelf, all of it, and getting something in return. Then I’m leaving, and none of you will follow me. You won’t see me again. Not ever. Understood?”

Jathidd’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, his arm retracting while he straightened up, unshaken. “Mole, you think we haven’t learned by now that you would’ve bloodied us all long ago if you had the stomach for it?”

“We may all get bloody tomorrow anyway,” replied Morlen. “And I’m only just starting to learn what I can stomach.”

Stiffening slightly at this, Jathidd furtively glanced for any sign of the others, all of whom could be heard scrambling to round up their unharnessed horses. “Just give me half,” he said. “That miserable creature can’t haul everything. I’ll take half and let you go on, and we won’t do anything to you.”

Morlen’s bow creaked as he drew back farther. “It’s always half. And a bit more for them afterward. Then a little more for you. I’m finished crawling back to the city with what’s left. Turn around and salvage everything you can, and I’ll be gone. Or—”

“Or…” said Jathidd, “one more warning shot, and then we’ll see just how far you can crawl.”

Morlen held the weapon steady, and neither he nor his target flinched as the stinging fumes gathered between them. The string choked the blood from his fingertips while he desperately hoped to break Jathidd’s certainty that he wouldn’t follow through. But, grinding his teeth against the strain of the draw that demanded immediately to be sprung or let down, he finally eased up on the taut cord, withdrawing its arrow.

Jathidd sneered as though knowing the standoff’s outcome all along. “Now that you mentioned it, Mole,” he mocked, “a bit more than half will do nicely.”

Suddenly a mounted boy dashed behind Morlen and wrenched the bow from his left hand, trotting away to join the others, who were all closing in on horseback. Each horse had been saddled earlier on the hunt to be ridden through denser parts of the wood, where a cart couldn’t pass. Now, with nothing else to carry, they could more easily pursue their prey.

They circled the scene like buzzards while Jathidd left his cart and climbed atop one of their horses. “Mole is cunning in the shadows,” he yelled, following Morlen as he turned to run. “But now he has no place to dig.” He drove Morlen farther out past his cargo, the rest herding him with kicks to his shoulders.

Morlen pushed hard against the hide on his right and barreled out through a small gap. But the others crowded in again, this time whipping him more vengefully until Jathidd directed them to fan out.

“Let him breathe a moment,” he laughed, and Morlen stopped in the center of their perimeter. “The chase is only starting, Mole,” Jathidd warned, sensing he meant to be moved no more. “You should get ready.”

But Morlen stayed firm, even as they formed up twenty yards away. Then they came at him again in a rapid gallop, charging head-on while still he refused to budge.

“You’d best get running!” Jathidd urged. “You’d leave too big a mess over all of us.”

Morlen saw them pounding closer, so close that to bolt in any direction would leave him bruised and scarred, but he stood his ground. They would ram, kick, and trample, and he would bleed. The earth shuddered beneath him, and he saw the thrill in every eye that watched, waited.

“STOP!” he screamed with arms thrashing out, and all five horses abruptly dug hooves into grass and dirt, neighing shrilly while skidding to halt before him. Jathidd careened so violently forward that his face slammed into the back of his animal’s head before it bucked him off, sending him flailing to land with a snap on his side. The others clung tightly when their carriers reared up and thundered down again, looking on through the frenzy at their fallen captain, who rolled to a stop several feet past Morlen.

Jathidd’s mouth was full of blood, his two front teeth glistening in the reeds beside his head, which lay studded with brown thistles, and his right arm bent backward at the elbow. “Uaggh…” His groans traveled far as he propped up to let a red puddle spill from his lips onto his chest. Three boys jumped down and ran to his aid, careful not to exchange any glance with Morlen, who remained fixed in place while only beginning to understand the damage done.

“I told you it wasn’t just stories,” one hissed, gingerly tucking himself under Jathidd’s crooked limb amid louder whines. “We need to do something. In case he tries anything else.”

“Next he might come looking for us,” another whispered. They lifted Jathidd’s torso and realized his legs were too weak to lend any support, finally picking him up at either end.

Morlen kept silent, transfixed by the hateful glare that now had fright at its core, so reminiscent of looks he got frequently at Korindelf. Then, a clenched hand bashed a jagged rock against his head, dropping him to his knees.

Dizzily steadying himself with both hands on the ground, he tried to stand as a boy rode up and kicked him squarely in the jaw, knocking him sideways. He had no chance to counter as the two pounced together on foot and pummeled his back and ribs. The second assailant was the one who’d taken his bow, which he glimpsed only momentarily as it was repeatedly brandished and rapped against him, until it cracked in half with one last blow that numbed his arm entirely.

His vision darkened as a low hum slowly built in his head, and he saw them turn away satisfied after a long while. They helped lay Jathidd inside the lead wagon, and then moved on to claim the cart with which he’d hoped to escape, releasing the frail beast that stumbled aimlessly forward while they gave a stronger specimen its bridle. With their own recovered spoils packed against Jathidd, they abandoned the other carts to proceed in a caravan around both loaded vehicles, and none cast even a brief look back.

On the edge of consciousness, Morlen reached out for his bow and found it splintered into two lesser arcs. The string lay useless nearby, so he tied it to the broken pieces and hung them around his neck. Now, any hope of escape was a distant dream. Elevating his head to reduce its throbbing, he gradually regained enough sight to spot his pitiful horse plodding through a column of dust, and forced himself upright.

He limped on behind those who would profit once again from his diligent harvest, and had to lean his whole body against the animal before daring to lift one foot to a stirrup. Eventually able to climb up to a seated position, he tapped both heels into its rear flanks. His long hair was matted with enough dirt to match the brown tatters he wore. In fact, if hostile eyes approached from the Dead Plains, he could dive from his mount and blend perfectly with the undergrowth. But such a life of constant concealment was one he saw worth losing.