A Facet for the Gem (14 page)

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 within 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.

Matufinn felt heavier by the second as the poison spread deeper, numbing every sensation but pain, yet he fought to hide any sign of this, leering at the triumphant huddle with indifference.

“Give him air, for goodness’ sake,” Felkoth ordered, stepping beside him as they shuffled back a space, tilting his head with a satisfied grin. “He’s been hard at work for some time now.”

Matufinn had no choice but to look into the bleak depths of his stare, and Felkoth relished such captivation, prolonging it as he bent closer, as though expecting to see a helpless shudder at any moment, though none came.

Losing some of his mock sympathy, Felkoth paced around him. “You’ve made a great deal of trouble for me this last year. Why, first I thought perhaps the wizard had returned, sneaking people from their given place in my kingdom, leaving none the wiser. But, foul as Nottleforf was, it is a man, not a wizard, who leaves a stench.” Felkoth stopped with both feet on either side of Matufinn’s head. “And you are just a man, aren’t you?” he gloated, holding him in an upside down smile that slowly began to spin.

“And”—he resumed his stride—“when my beasts brought to my attention how unmistakable this stench was, and where it led, I was quite curious, since not long before someone else of great interest to me had vanished into that very same place.” His self-aware enthusiasm poured down like stinking waste, but Matufinn showed no weakness.

“I know we’ve had our quarrels, you and I, from afar and up close.” Felkoth’s silky speech turned steadily colder. “But, I’m willing to let the past die.” He stopped near Matufinn’s shoulder, glaring down at him. “Where is the boy?”

Matufinn’s saliva bubbled in the back of his throat while he tried to conceal the difficulty of his efforts to breathe. Knowing how sparse words were for the picking, he mustered what he could. “There are no boys here,” he answered, half smiling. “Except for you, Prince.”

The gathered soldiers gasped as one. Felkoth, too, let his nostrils flare out, though his expression remained otherwise unchanged. Straightening up, he regarded Matufinn for the last time. “When I find him,” he whispered, “I’ll have the shriekers keep him alive.” Wiping blood from the blade on the corner of his cloak, he added, “For as long as they can, at least.”

Slowly turning, Felkoth headed for the river once again as his servants quietly followed, making their way toward the lake meadow. “Come, Nefandyr,” he called as the man whose face was scarred lagged behind.

Squatting to smirk at Matufinn with amusement while patting his shoulder, Nefandyr taunted, “Careful who you trust, old man.” Then, heeding his master, he rose without a second glance and took his leave.

Matufinn lay still, mind and body deteriorating fast. The lake was now cut off, and the blast of horns from every direction indicated the other forces were drawing close as well. Morlen was coming. And though he silently implored against this, all he could do was watch.

Morlen sprinted through smoke, choking on discolored spit as he strained to detect his father. He staggered as an acute twinge shot from the base of his skull to his toes, and winced in pain as the energy guiding him abruptly began to fade. Matufinn was in trouble. Perhaps he fought the enemy now, at this very moment. And perhaps they’d gained the upper hand. He refused to entertain the grimmest possibility, going forward despite the assembling battalions that marched to the same goal. He would not stop. They could still get out, together.

Dense trees parted to reveal the river, making its way toward the lake. Felkoth’s horns rang out up ahead, stabbing dread into his heart as he realized they’d prevailed over the last attempt to halt them. Perhaps, though, his father merely waited to spring one more assault.

Soon, bodies strewn across the ground forced him to navigate far more cautiously, and he refused to search for Matufinn among them. His knuckles turned white as he scanned the sprawling scene, ready to unquestionably reject whatever his eyes might catch.

The remains of battle spread in a wider pattern, allowing him more space to continue. Matufinn’s presence flickered so close. Any farther and he might pass…

He stopped, defying every urge not to look, and saw that his search was over. His father lay on his back, unmoving, just ahead, chest barely rising with each short breath. He rushed to his side, kneeling to see the veins in his face had turned a sickly green. His eyes were sunken, though not glazed yet, and still they recognized him.

Morlen’s heart boiled as he bitterly cursed Felkoth, certain this could only be the work of the Dark Blade. Matufinn grumbled while he lowered his face to listen, fighting to suppress despair.

“Nuh… no,” Matufinn uttered softly.

Morlen wanted nothing but for them both to leave right now, to stop the tears that knifed their way out so painfully, falling upon his father’s hair.

“No…” Matufinn repeated. The horns blared, and a rising beat within the soil announced the approach of Felkoth’s remaining legions, but he would not be moved, paying all attention to his father’s words.

Matufinn’s left arm twitched just a few inches upward, fingers stretching out toward him as he grabbed them with his own and lifted them to rest upon his shoulder.

“Know… it… Morlen,” Matufinn exhaled, smiling fully now as he took in his son. His face brimmed with a joy that defied grave injury and dire circumstance, a transcendent attainment that Morlen could only watch unfold. As his fingers began to go limp, he drew one more breath, slowly let it fill his lungs, and released it at last behind one happy word: “Morlen.”

His bright smile faded while Morlen tried in vain to cling to his receding energy, begging it not to leave, to stay with him, to no avail. And Matufinn’s breath did not return.

Morlen became a cold statue, wondering if the earth would swallow him up if he knelt long enough, still clasping his father’s lifeless hand. Voices broke out from all sides as Felkoth’s troops rejoined one another, coming across the first wave of their slain brothers in arms. Many emerged from the lake meadow as well, no doubt sent to track him down.

Though his will to act was diminished, he knew he could not linger. Nor could he abandon his father’s body to the vengeful hands of the fast-returning soldiers who would fill the area in a matter of seconds. He had to flee, now, as far away as possible.

Looking sorrowfully at Matufinn’s empty eyes, he closed them tenderly with an open hand. Then, as the quake of boots crashed nearer, he shed his cloak and draped it over the body, hoping it would be a sufficient shield from view.

They were here. He had to run, just as he’d done a year before. Only this time he knew not where to go. He bolted through the trees, forsaking the now cut-off lake, his only chance for quick departure, but too late. He was spotted, and uproarious calls for pursuit sent Felkoth’s men tearing along his path.

This was no exhibition of sport with the beloved lions, all of whom stood blocked behind the partition of flame at the Isle’s center; second place in this race would bring death. Doubt was all that remained in him, and the cold voice he’d left in the Dark Mountains reverberated more strongly than any other memory. He was weak, as much now in leaving the Isle as upon entering it for the first time. And, while arrows zipped through the adjacent brush, he suspected he would not get far. He was not strong enough; he knew that now.

“He’s here!” snarled one man a dozen paces back as Morlen lunged around the base of a hill, throwing himself farther into the woods. “This way!”

Crushing pain began to pierce Morlen’s sides, stealing from each breath, but still he ran. Then, something shone out to him, as it had many times before, so friendly, and warm. Buried… he’d buried it. And suddenly, he understood his course. He was not moving toward escape, but to the one thing that could erase all fear, and make him whole.

He had to reach it, or else Felkoth might come to have it. That is what Nottleforf had charged him with when entrusting it into his possession. Nottleforf had also told him not to turn to the power it offered. But, that choice would soon be his, and his alone.

“To me! I see him!” another shouted at his heels.

He pushed on desperately, glad to let his own panting drown out the sounds of those tracking him when, thinking them a reasonable space behind, he shuddered to see a tall cloaked figure a few yards away on his right. Throwing every remaining bit of strength into moving ahead, he dared not waste a moment to fire at the pursuer while the others rapidly followed, their opportunistic shots guaranteeing loss of limb if he tarried. But as he wove farther through the forest trails, the shot patterns grew wider, less accurate, though still a threat. The darkly clad figure near his position vanished, though undoubtedly watching him, unwilling to let him break away.

Eventually the soldiers ceased their fire altogether, falling out of range as he drove on. Danger, though, was far from evaded when again the corner of a dark cloak through the trees caught his eye, spurring him on more urgently. Could Felkoth have caught up to him already? Was he leading the enemy to the very spot where it rested, waiting to be claimed? What if he retrieved it only to be apprehended before he could use it?

Again, as he focused all fading determination into moving forward, the elusive tracker haunting his steps disappeared into the brush, leaving him more than uneasy as he approached his destination. He could feel where it lay hidden, where he’d entombed it to conceal its rich luster. There was no more time; he had to reach it now.

After what seemed an agonizing hour treading water above circling predators, he burst at last into the wide clearing where he and Matufinn had first sparred. Seeing the large stone draped in a year’s worth of moss on the opposite side, his spirits soared.

With determined calls for his capture advancing like a net, and the more ominous foe at his heels sure to emerge at any moment, he sprang across the grass and threw himself upon the cool, damp stone. Digging frantic hands beneath its rounded edge, he struggled to wedge it out and was only reminded how much he truly needed what lay beneath, which drew him closer with memories of its dancing sheen.

Legs bent and back straining, he wrenched the stone free of its resting place and flipped it out of the way, pulling clear the worn-out cover to reveal the shallow hole that held the object he sought, just as he’d left it. He knew someone was nearby, even though he had tentatively scanned the perimeter and found that no others had entered the vicinity. Fearing they’d soon be upon him, he hastily reached in and unearthed the small relic, wrapped in the torn brown sleeve of his old garb from Korindelf.