A Facet for the Gem

by C. L. Murray

  “Have you done this yourself?” he yelled out in frustration.

  “You have bigger worries than what I’ve done. What have you done?”

  Morlen hid his enjoyment of the man’s wit and leapt out, feet scurrying as though their speed would carry him across, only to sink once more. Could this be some kind of mental test, to teach him that one must sometimes accept failure? If so, he was learning quickly.

  Nevertheless, he persisted in the most creative ways he could devise: hitting the water on all fours in an effort to run like an animal, flapping his arms as though to fly. An hour whittled away, minute by minute, while he tried in vain again and again, until finally, one plunge sent an encouraging flash of gold through his mind. At this, he urgently clutched his inner chest pocket, relieved to feel the flat metallic object he’d almost forgotten, safely concealed.

  Rising soaked again upon the rock, he faced down the open blue that chided him as it remained untrodden. He was simply not fast enough, not strong enough. But… he could be. His strength and speed could be unsurpassed, as the Talking Tree had promised. He merely had to take out the treasure in his possession, and ask it to make him the way he’d always wanted to be.

  “Have you given up already?” Matufinn asked. “Do not think about what you know. You can hold firm to it for the rest of your life, but there you will be stranded. So, step out, and leave it behind.” Then he seemed to whisper something else under his breath.

  Don’t think… don’t think. Morlen could not help but disobey the command, springing off once more with his hand cradling the Goldshard to prevent it slipping out, and made another miserable splash. He partly expected to be scolded as he came up for air, hearing instead the same rapid whispering that could only be Matufinn’s way of venting frustration.

  Clinging to the rock while still half-immersed, he questioned whether he could climb one more time, let alone give this fruitless exercise another attempt. But, Matufinn expected him to carry on, and the thought of letting him down was strangely dispiriting.

  Despite the soggy chill that numbed his fingers, he dug hard to pull himself up again. He crouched with hands upon his knees, deliriously trying to form a new approach to this obstacle, but none remained. Every strategy had resulted in the same failure. There must be some obvious solution Matufinn wanted him to see.

  As he searched for the answer, a curious dark cloud gathered above the lake’s bordering trees and descended toward the water. Then it scattered, revealing hundreds of ravens that screeched in unison while they swarmed the boat to attack Matufinn. Before long he disappeared from sight, and Morlen could only listen to his frightful screams.

  “Aghhhh, get away! GET AWAY!” Matufinn yelled painfully. “AGHHHHH!” he wailed. “STOP! AGHHHHHH, MORLEN! MORLEN, HELP ME!”

  Morlen lunged out, leaving all deliberation behind, neither watching the water that barely rippled beneath his feet nor looking back at the rock that was now a speck. He saw only the black cloud that swelled and tightened as he drew nearer. Leaping with all his might, he dove straight through their swarm and arched into the water, and they noisily dispersed back to their perches in the forest.

  He shot up to the surface and found, to his slight irritation, that Matufinn stood inside the boat completely unscathed, beaming at him while kneeling down to offer his hand.

  “We can walk on water,” said Matufinn, “if we just forget how to walk.”

  Morlen sputtered, clasping his forearm, which pulled him up over the side of the vessel. “You tricked me! You made the birds attack you? And what is that supposed to mean, ‘forget how to walk’?”

  “I called the ravens, yes,” Matufinn replied. “But they did not actually harm me, as you can see.” He lifted a large brown blanket from behind his legs and wrapped it around Morlen’s shivering back. “When you thought about the step, you fell; when you thought about the water, you sank. But when you forgot about them both, and walked, what else did you forget?”

  It had all happened so quickly, he hadn’t had time to think like in the previous attempts. Each of those had taken fierce concentration, and resulted in disappointment. “I forgot that I couldn’t,” he answered finally.

  They shared a comfortable silence after this, one that held understanding, and needed no distraction. Then Matufinn rowed back the way they had come. And though Morlen was soaked, he drank in the evening breeze, open to whatever lessons the day still held.

  After making their way back to shore, they pushed the boat to rest upon the lake’s gravelly bank. Seeing Morlen’s bow on the ground nearby, Matufinn picked it up and gave it a long look of appraisal. “A fine weapon,” he said, drawing back hard on its string while the pliant arc bent without a creak. “So light and lean that you could fire off two shots before your targets knew what was coming. I’m sure it’s served you well,” he added, handing it over.

  Morlen nodded as he took it, gripping the blurred outline of a hand imprinted upon it years before. “It’s all I’ve ever had,” he said, restrapping the quiver as well. “All that’s ever been mine.”

  “What about a sword?” asked Matufinn, glad to see the spark in Morlen’s eyes at the question. “You’ve never had one?”

  “Just this,” Morlen answered as he drew his small hunting knife, its rusty blade too dull and dented to pose even a modest threat to an apple.

  Matufinn laughed, taking it in his palm to examine its decay, and then tossed it far into the lake without a second glance. “Come,” he said. “We’ll find something more suitable for you.” He turned to walk back toward the woods, and Morlen ran lightly to keep up.

  The sun was sinking low when they entered a small clearing, and Matufinn went to a large round stone sitting at its edge. Prying it up, he flipped it to the side and brushed away the undergrowth, revealing an old, worn cover that he pulled away to expose a rectangular hole.

  Morlen crouched to look within, seeing many shapes of various sizes, overall similarly long and narrow, wrapped in cloth. Swords. Dozens of them. Some were old, rusted, from long before his time; others were in fair condition; and all had surely seen battle. Matufinn extracted the freshest one of the batch, took its grip firmly in hand, and then held it out for Morlen.

  “My first sword,” he said. “The one I wielded against the shriekers. I set it aside after my brief travels led me to befriend one of the Freelands’ finest sword smiths, a fellow by the name of Edrik, who forged one that has maintained a cleaner history.” He tapped the hilt of the weapon at his hip.

  Its blade still had a subtle luster, though chipped in some places, and Morlen’s expression was bright as he studied it. “This is to be mine?” he asked, taking it from Matufinn’s hand.

  Matufinn nodded. “For now, at least. Until you obtain your true sword.” Then, with his chin raised boldly, he added, “But first, you must get acquainted with it.”

  Unsure what to anticipate, Morlen rose and followed Matufinn to the clearing’s center, setting his bow and quiver aside again. The air rang as Matufinn smoothly drew his own weapon and faced him a few paces away.

  “Though you’ve had little experience with a blade, not to worry,” he said. “Much more than mere swordsmanship will be tested here. Stand ready now.”

  Morlen dug in his heels, clinging to the steel with both hands as if it were timber in a flood. Matufinn swung down vertically, and he quickly raised it above his head to parry a blow that shook him to his core. The sword swung again at his left this time, and he stopped it just a few inches from his head with a deafening note. Then Matufinn’s blade swept toward his right leg, and his tattered garb narrowly escaped a new shred as he swung dangerously close to defend.

  “Faster!” Matufinn urged as their blades met, thrusting forward to stab. Sweeping across his front, Morlen knocked the strike aside and opened Matufinn’s guard.

  “Good. Attack!”

  Morlen swung diagonally, connecting with nothing as Matufinn dodged so quickly he nearly vanished, coming at him again as
though to fell a tree with an axe, and it took all his might to repel the blow, which staggered him back several feet.

  “Again.” Matufinn spurred him on. “Attack.”

  Morlen’s enjoyment of their amicable exchange faded as the exercise grew more heated. He charged forward, aiming the point of his blade at Matufinn, but hit only air while a kick to his backside sent him stumbling. Then he turned around in frustration and saw Matufinn staring at him with the look he began to despise, as though to make him feel an inherent strength that he found quite elusive.

  “Are you trying to fight me with your sword? With your arms?” Matufinn mocked. “These alone will not help you. Must I trick you again so you may forget them?”

  Morlen grunted stubbornly through another advance, swinging as Matufinn flowed around his guard and jeered.

  “Do you think your blade is a threat to me? I am already gone before it’s thrown.”

  Anger building, Morlen thrust his elbow upward at Matufinn’s voice, missing again as a painful kick to the small of his back scuttled him forward. Whatever speed Matufinn demanded, he couldn’t summon it. Every boy who had pummeled him into the dirt came rushing back with each clash of steel on steel, punching, kicking, laughing at his weakness. He felt the Goldshard against his heart, offering hope and refuge.

  “Morlen!”

  He ducked Matufinn’s blade and barely kept his ear unscathed. Lunging forward again on the offensive, he held his weapon close to his body this time, anticipating Matufinn’s quick evasion. He reared back as though to execute, and Matufinn took the bait, moving sideways in the path of his deliberate strike. Stumbling slightly to block, Matufinn tried to pass it off as a misstep, but Morlen was not fooled.

  Matufinn gave him the faintest look of approval. “Good. Now, faster!” he bade, and struck high as Morlen ducked with a low swing. He grimaced when Matufinn hurdled easily over the jab to whip him between the shoulders, and quickly spun around only to be shoved aside. Turning once more, he sent sparks through the air as metal met metal with a sonorous clang, and then slammed his shoulder into Matufinn’s chest, throwing an upward slice that took off the bottom inch of his beard.

  Brows arched in surprise, Matufinn’s eyes lowered furtively toward a less-covered chin, his free hand twitching a few inches up and stopping, as though he willed himself not to touch it. Looking at Morlen, he fought to keep the corners of his mouth low.

  Morlen held his position for the next attack, and it came swiftly as Matufinn leapt forward, bombarding him with a flurry of blows that demanded all he could muster to deflect. Their blades tore through the air as each tried to drive the other back, neither one budging.

  Morlen pushed against the weapon bearing down on him and wheezed. “What did you mean… urgh… when you said… I would obtain… my ‘true sword’?”

  Matufinn let up and quickly batted his thrust away, forcing him back again, and saw that he was not inclined to resume until the question was answered. Grateful for a chance to rest while under the guise of obliging this, he took a few paces back of his own.

  “There is a sword, unlike any other,” said Matufinn. “It has been waiting to be claimed by one of us for centuries. But, all have tried, including myself, and all have failed.”

  “Where is it?” Morlen asked.

  Trying subtly to catch his breath, Matufinn continued. “Beyond the Dead Plains, high in the Dark Mountains, where Morthadus saw the rest of his order fall into mists of black. It is said that Korine the Ancient helped him escape, and left the Crystal Blade for our bloodline to obtain, just as he gave the Crystal Spear to the Eaglemasters. And it sits before the black mists to this day, for one who is worthy of it.”

  “Then I could also go to the Dark Mountains, and try to claim it?”

  Matufinn nodded. “When it is your time.”

  Daring to tread where he knew Matufinn wished to avoid, Morlen asked, “And, you will lead me to the mountains? You will go out, and take me to the sword’s path?”

  Matufinn’s nostrils widened. “Enough rest. It is time to resume.” And he raised his blade, Morlen doing the same.

  They stared one another down, each waiting for some sign to make a move, until both finally lunged at the same time, and their colliding swords sent tremors through the ground. “Why are you so afraid?” Morlen steamed, probing for weakness. “What am I supposed to learn from you, when you test my limits while hiding behind your own?” He swiveled and struck again, only for his attack to be negated.

  “Learn not to be like me,” Matufinn replied, dodging his counter jab. “Be better than I am.”

  Morlen pivoted to thrust out again. “That won’t be difficult. I just won’t surrender as easily as you.” He missed as Matufinn forced him back with a kick to the chest. Stunned from the blow, it was all he could do to stand rooted and lift his sword to absorb Matufinn’s next strike, which stamped a deep imprint of his feet into the grass.

  “I didn’t surrender—I lost.” Matufinn seethed as they stood blade to blade. “I lost my father to the shriekers… I lost Dirona.”

  “Dirona,” Morlen whispered. “I know that name. She was my… mother.”

  Matufinn broke eye contact, and, feeling him ease back, Morlen pushed with all he had left, creating a gap that neither one immediately breached. His glare burned Matufinn, who made him wait long before finally meeting it. And more was told now than all they’d spoken before.

  Then Morlen swung hard, and their blades hit with an echoing blast. But this time, when Matufinn darted to elude him, he followed. They became two swirling leaves in a gust, striking with tremendous speed. Sparks ricocheted left and right while they battled, neither of them yielding.

  “You’re doing it, Morlen!”

  But Matufinn was faster, stronger, and as Morlen struggled to keep up, the familiar jagged touch from his inner chest pocket comforted and reassured.

  “Morlen!” shouted Matufinn, seeing him falter.

  Why not use it as he wished? It could make him strong… invulnerable, even. He wouldn’t have to fear or hurt again as long as he relied on it.

  “Morlen!” Matufinn bellowed louder.

  His stance slackened, and Matufinn swept in before he could deflect, knocking him to the ground. He lay motionless, his entire body completely drained. Then, looking up at the sky, he began to laugh. “When you called us sons of Morthadus, you didn’t mean we were brothers.”

  Matufinn stepped closer, broad shoulders and long cloak casting a shadow over him as he lay flat on his back. “Who are you, Morlen?”

  Morlen struggled to prop himself up, sitting ashamed while Matufinn sought an answer he could not even pretend to have.

  Matufinn let out a heavy sigh. “If you cannot look inward and know now, then you must when you stand before the enemy out there, and the thousands that march behind him. If you are weak from within, like they think you are, they will have already beaten you.” Then he bent down and held out his arm for Morlen, who took it loosely, and gripped harder than necessary while hauling him up.

  “The answer,” Matufinn finished, “will not be in your words, but in what you feel when you say them, in the truth that shatters all barriers. Feel it, and know it.”

  Matufinn looked at him for one last moment. Then, with night beginning to fall, he turned and strode back through the trees.

  Alone in the clearing, Morlen limped to gather his belongings, and gingerly picked up the old sword. He used his sleeve to polish off any dirt, and then followed the sound of Matufinn’s efforts to spark a campfire, ready for the day’s end.

  They sat opposite each other across the fire, immersed in a tensionless quiet, and Morlen thought of how different tomorrow would be than any day he had ever experienced. Unable to spare the energy to speak, he rolled onto his side and faced away from the flames as Matufinn seemed to pay no heed. He reclined on the grass and stretched his throbbing tendons as far as they would permit, drinking in the heat at his back.

  Matufinn rema
ined seated, tracing every form within the orange glow while Morlen became a silhouette in his periphery. “My mother was an Eaglemaster.” His voice suddenly filled the surrounding calm. And Morlen lay still, careful to maintain the impression that he was asleep, though he kept eyes and ears wide open.

  “One of the only common women in history to be counted among those warriors,” Matufinn continued. “Often she would fly over the Isle, singing a sweet song, and my father would watch her from the trees, thinking her fair beyond measure.

  “One day, she flew close enough that he called out to her, inviting her to see the marvels held inside, and so she came.” His sight did not stray from the fire while he spoke, and Morlen dared not twitch a muscle, listening closely.

  “From then on, she would fly here and sit atop her eagle, perched in the trees above where my father slept, soothing him with her melodies. Every night, as he lay waiting for her song, she came and sang it lovingly. And when she took it away with her each time, she hoped that he would follow so they could be together. But, as her song trailed off beyond the Isle’s borders, he remained within, afraid of the world outside.

  “So she chose to give up her eagle and her station, binding herself to him in the Isle instead. They lived together in happiness for years, and eventually she bore me to him. But, even as a small child, I began to sense a deep sadness within her.”

  Unable to conceal his interest any longer, Morlen rolled over to face him. “Why?” he asked. “Why was she sad?”

  Matufinn turned his eyes from the flames to meet him head-on, smiling. “Because she’d climbed into his cage with him. I would often see her crying all alone, and I knew she despaired because she did not want to stay here forever, as he did.”

  Scratching a nervous itch on his cheek, he resumed. “When I was grown, I wanted to help her, but I didn’t know how. Her prime was long past, and her body too frail to ever fly atop an eagle again.

  “That is when I met Nottleforf for the first time. He visited the Isle, warning that the shriekers were marching out from the South. But, it seemed he came for another reason, as though he knew my mother’s pain. He offered her a solution, a chance to be free again, and she took it.”