by C. L. Murray
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.”
They stood and watched him vanish, and even Felkoth took in the spectacle with wonder. But with the wizard gone, he let his mind stray from thoughts of any who might challenge him now. Korindelf was his at last, and his prize lay somewhere in the Forbidden Isle, held by a runt who probably hadn’t any understanding of how to use it. He would just have to wait for him to foolishly emerge, or, discover how to gain entrance himself. Either way, he intended to kill the boy and take back what was his.
And that was all he was, Felkoth assured himself. Just a boy, nothing more.
Chapter Four
In The Forbidden Isle
MORLEN GROPED AROUND as though immersed in water, his toes stretching to touch ground and finding none. He could hear by his pursuers’ muffled shouts that they were unable to follow him through the boundary, and, remaining suspended in the mist, he was filled with peace. They may as well have been miles away.
Clasping his bow, he leaned forward to swipe at the thick vapors and fell face-first into a grassy floor on the other side, which was fragrant and soft. Then, flat on his stomach, he looked ahead at a sight that even hours without blinking would fail to fully capture. Colors he had never imagined were painted all across a broad forest, each tree a spectrum of dripping light, with swollen fruits that looked to have gone unclaimed for some time, until now.
Jumping to stand, he plunged into the shimmering grove and embarked on the daunting task of choosing among the apples that dangled above and on every side. Some were the blue of watery depths, and others the purple and pink of sunset, with a slew of mixtures in between, caressed by shades of indigo, emerald, turquoise, amber, and gold.
With the bow slung over his shoulder again, he reached up, wrapped his fingers around one fruit’s smooth, almost glassy mauve surface, and plucked it from its branch, surprised at how dense it felt in his hand. Then he opened hungry jaws and crushed into the apple’s side, blinking through a luminous splash as he took off a chunk so large it kept his lips apart, and chewed until his mouth became flooded with nectar that drove out pain and fear.
He enthusiastically bit again, letting his teeth bring out a cool wave that soothed even more, and potent juice dripped down his chin while he tried another apple, knowing he would grow old and gray before sampling them all. And as he devoured the Isle’s fruit, his senses seemed to expand, detecting many life forms that sent warm vibrations through the soil.
Making his way south, he delved deeper into the woods, arms spilling over with apples he couldn’t bear to leave unbitten. Beds of lavender decorated the forest floor like hundreds of purple carpets around the plentiful orchards, lifting fresh perfumes and stretching far in each direction. Sunlight filtered through a leafy canopy above, reflected by every branch’s heavily strung orbs, and the air remained cool and fresh, unpolluted by the fires and stench that covered the adjacent lands.
The apples sustained him through hours of walking, and the resultant waves of heightened awareness brought with them the suspicion that he was being watched. Soon, he glimpsed bright movement in his periphery, like flames springing up on either side, and came to a halt. When he slowly turned to look between the trees, countless pairs of silver eyes under thick, flowing manes stared back, observing him carefully. Drawing a quick breath, he saw, concealed in the brush, that the Isle’s fabled lions had gathered all around.
He felt no danger or threat from them, instead drawing comfort from their presence. One calmly pushed out of the bushes, shaking leaves from its fur in a graceful march toward him. The lion’s stout head was as high as his chest, but he stood unafraid when it came closer to sniff him curiously. Seeming to decide he was no intruder, the creature withdrew its inspecting prod and affectionately nuzzled his arm. To Morlen’s astoni
shment, the others emerged and followed suit, taking a closer glance at him while pressing moist noses against his hands.
Then, they bowed their heads around him, permitting his passage, and he stood in awe of their unwarranted show of respect. Often he’d felt a strong kinship with beasts of the wild, as if he could somehow empathize with them and they with him. But he had never experienced anything like this, almost able to inhale their bravery and resilience. Pulsing with humility, he moved through their ranks and knew without looking back that they were following him. He was glad to have their company, unsure of what or whom he would encounter as he journeyed farther.
He had always been fascinated by stories of the Isle’s people, reclusive warriors whose strength and speed were said to be extraordinary, noted to emerge only when Korindelf was under attack. But why had none shown themselves this time? No tale he’d ever heard suggested they were prolific, but some could very well still reside here. And, if any did, he wondered how long it would be before they found him, since his presence was already quite conspicuous.
Eventually the sound of water tickled his ears, and parting trees yielded to an open strip that sloped down toward a river. Its current was gentle, and it wound for miles past his vision east and west. He eagerly strode to it, convinced there could be no purer water anywhere, and got down on fertile soil that dampened hand and knee, drinking deeply. He dunked his entire head, scrubbing away all grime he had carried with him, not for the last few days, but years. After minutes of washing up for the first time in too long, he looked down at his reflection through dripping hair that clung to bruises and scars soon to be forgotten, and was clean.
Purple hues painted the sky as night fell, and he decided to travel no farther until morning. He would rest within the woods, and rise at first light to follow the river east, though what compelled him to go in that particular direction he could not precisely say. Above all else, some inner part of him was being pulled that way.