A Facet for the Gem

by C. L. Murray

  The canvas shifted, swirling the tumultuous scene away and condensing into another, closer now to the present. He saw a tremendous lion in a cage, enclosed behind golden bars it had secured around itself for protection. But, the bars were shrinking inward, constricting it, preventing any proper swipe or lunge. The lion was going to die, and by its own folly, no less—its own fear. Could it not break free, somehow? Could it never escape?

  Then, the lion and cage vanished as present bridged with past, giving way to another image that gradually became more defined than the others. He saw a single tree, standing tall and broad—old, undying, and bearing many branches. Then, suddenly, it split vertically into two halves, one of which withdrew its roots and pushed far away from the other, planting itself again where it could be set apart. And the discarded half slowly withered and cracked without nourishment.

  But, as many ages passed, the half that tried to flourish in separation from its counterpart soon found itself similarly afflicted, unable to endure such a broken state. Extending its roots back toward those of the other, it grew stronger the closer they drew, though fearful of the poison that would sting more powerfully if they rejoined. But, only together could they overcome it and have peace.

  The abandoned half feebly reached out toward that which returned while both felt life rekindle within. Their roots became entwined, pulling each to the other until the two halves finally met again as one, mending over time.

  Morlen gasped sharply, pulling away to fall hard on his back, and grabbed aimlessly for the opening through which he’d entered the chamber. He flipped himself around and urgently dug back through the connecting passage until he could breathe more freely, his mind violently spinning to rest, no longer exposed to the intoxicating vapors.

  Forcing into the adjacent segment, he sat up, leaning against the cold rock with both arms wrapped around his knees, exhilarated at all he’d seen. He almost laughed, envisioning what he’d expected to find here when first entering. Crawling up again toward the narrow chute, he summoned the same effort that had driven him down to this place, feeling, as he had then, he must meet the one on the other side.

  And, this time, he understood. It was clear now.

  He knew where to find Morthadus.

  Memory swelled and rocked like hostile waters, drowning Morthadus in the recurring dream whose end he could only hope would finally bring his own. To wake, and face what was swiftly coming, would be more than he could bear.

  He drifted back to the night he’d left the Isle, when he stood looking out on those who slept soundly over soil that buried others whose faces still branded him. He could not watch another grow, see them leave and come back to him with proven strength and new love, as though the extension of his progeny could somehow blur them all into one line. He could never forget the sight of each who shone so much brighter than he, each who crumbled like everything within his falsely youthful shell, into ruin.

  The scene rose away from those who lay blanketed in color and warmth, crashing like foam over familiar cliffs. The Dark Mountains’ poisonous touch was a minor sting as he climbed toward the only light amid an endless sea, and the streak of radiant blue mists still fluttered calmly over the very spot where he and Korine had once stood.

  Stepping past the Crystal Blade, which sat untouched waiting for someone to claim it, he went to the ninety-nine swords dropped long before by men far greater. The gap in their line only shamed him at the shadow’s edge while he stood, so unworthy, outside it. He shuddered coldly, hearing a voice that would never fully leave him.

  “Weak… weak… weak.”

  His old eyes were faint embers of the light they’d once held, tears staining cheeks that had been kept smooth and fresh for too long as he bowed a mournful head. “I know.”

  Its gossamer touch could inflict no more dread than what already filled him, to have fled his brothers’ fate for one just as dark. “You were right, Korine,” he said. “I am Morthadus of the Blessed Ones no more.” He drew his sword from its sheath at his hip, raised it high with both hands, and firmly drove it into the ground between the others, making their line complete.

  Then suddenly, in his periphery, he saw the cloud of Korine’s lost vapors begin to stir, and turned with alarm as they rushed to encircle him in a cyclone that tightened all around. They imbued him with energy that did not escape, but flowed from his very center out through his arms, collecting at his fiery fingertips while the glowing vortex shrank lower, until all of it was finally absorbed.

  He stood boiling with power—tremendous power. And, seeing that his hands were now old and wrinkled, he put them to his face, realizing that it had finally caught up with his age, his chin covered by a thick gray beard.

  Walking out to the sharp cliff edge, he looked out on all lands below, unsure of where he would go, or who he would be. He would never go back to the Isle; of that he was certain. They must live apart from him, and he from them.

  As his body became lost in the wind like a pile of leaves, he was reminded of how Korine had sent him away, how he had sent him to her, so many years before. But, he could no longer think about that. When those things had happened, he had been Morthadus of the Blessed Ones. But now, and forevermore, he was not.

  Day had grown short when Morlen finally emerged from beneath the mountain to rejoin Roftome, and the sky darkened to purple as they passed again over the silent stretch of woods. Returning to the familiar grove, he dismounted and strode toward Nottleforf’s quarters.

  He pulled the two trapdoors open over the wizard’s stairwell, which, he discerned through the dim light, led only to bare, jagged rock. Never having given a second thought to where Nottleforf slept, he entered now to find it had no bed or blanket, no shelter of any kind except rough stone walls and an unkind floor.

  He passed into the hallway, following it back toward his own compartment. There, he came upon Nottleforf sitting wearily beside the stoked hearth in a wooden armchair, giving no shuffle or nod to acknowledge his presence.

  Standing before the wizard, who’d kept him always at such a distance though watching over him closely, Morlen looked at him now as if it were the very first time. “You are Morthadus.”

  Nottleforf’s eyes, sunken above dark, wrinkled bags, slowly turned to blue ice as though all of his inner workings came grinding to a halt. His persistent silence sent the slightest tremor through the floor and up its earthen walls while Morlen held firm.

  Still unable to return any attention, Nottleforf stared forward, clearing his throat of grief that could no longer be kept down. “Morlen.” His voice was deep, unshaking though it seemed to be under the weight of heavy waters. “That part of me has been dead for a very long time.”

  Morlen would not withdraw his focus. “Yet you kept eyes and ears open for me always, even when it pained you to look after me, though I never knew why you did, until now.” He thought back to the image of the severed tree, reaching so fearfully toward its forsaken half with hope that their rejoining might heal more than it stung. “And before me, you came to my father, in the place where you left those who followed in your bloodline. Where you undoubtedly vowed never to return. Look at me, and tell me it was chance that drove you to that. Tell me it was not your wish to restore that part of you that has always lived, to know us, and let us come to know you, Morthadus.”

  Nottleforf’s gray head darted toward him at the repeated name, and his ancient brow stretched tight above a searing gaze meant for foe, not friend. “Do not call me that, Morlen,” he rumbled so unfamiliarly, like a cornered beast. “I warned you what might happen, if you searched too closely.”

  Morlen held his ground, though as unaccustomed to threats from the wizard as he was to any outward display of emotion by him, and pressed stubbornly. “And still you helped me. Still you sent me where I would be shown what you were too afraid to bring yourself to say, just as when you sent me to the Isle, to learn what you’d kept from me for so long. Morthadus wanted me to know those things, and now
that I do, I see him clearly. And he is good.”

  He stood at ease knowing he could be toppled at any moment by Nottleforf’s visibly unstable reaction, and spoke again, boldly. “You don’t need to be buried anymore. You don’t need to be a faceless legend to those you left. If they all knew you now, they would still hold you in high regard.”

  “There is nothing,” the wizard seethed in reply. “None to know, or see, but what sits before you now. I am Nottleforf, nothing more.”

  “You are Morthadus of the Blessed—” A dizzying flash knocked the wind out of his chest as Nottleforf bolted upward, sending him flying back to obliterate the wooden table in the chamber’s center. Its splintered pieces poked into him while he lay flat upon the ground, disoriented and bruised.

  Tentatively sitting up with no thought of any counterattack, Morlen saw that defense too would be needless, as Nottleforf now stood shamefully covering both eyes with the hand that had struck, and many tears seeped out to follow the lines of old wrinkles. Extending the other weakly as though to beg his trust of no further action, the wizard looked down at him, face smeared by his fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked through a gripping sob. “I am sorry… Morlen.”

  Then, leaning against a nearby wall, he shook his head as labored words poured forth. “Morthadus of the Blessed Ones,” he said despairingly, while Morlen watched from the floor. “I was not blessed, but cursed. To have been made so deceptively invulnerable, all of us… so that together, as brothers, we prospered without a blemish, without fatigue, until we became numb to all that had once made us men.

  “How awful it was to be stripped of that protection so quickly, to remember what it was to sweat and bleed. Each of them was stronger than I, brave while I was afraid. And they looked to me for help while I acted only to save myself. I stood watching as they lost their hope and stepped back into a realm worse than death. After that night, how could I go on as one of them while I rotted from the inside?” He slowly revealed his face again with this, and Morlen rose under his beseeching gaze.

  “Do you understand, Morlen?” he pleaded. “I had to die. Morthadus… had to die. And all that remained of me had to live separate, far removed, from all that remained of him.”

  Morlen looked at him, seeing no disguise now. “I understand why you came back,” he answered. “To us, and to him.”

  Unresistant this time, Nottleforf simply held his part of a rare quiet between them now, the first one he hadn’t brought to keep Morlen from growing too close. This was the result of that long-dreaded encounter, and yet, in it, he for once found nothing to fear.

  Suddenly though, it was broken by distant notes that penetrated even snow and rock, reverberating from the lower cities. Glancing toward the surface, Morlen hastily grasped the Crystal Blade and strapped it at his hip, securing bow and quiver to his back as well while running up into the open air, which was blotted with smoke.

  Craning his thick white head to look down from a perch in the trees, Roftome alerted him. “The city men call for help at the southernmost fort. Their defenses are broken around the ferotaurs, who march below the enemy’s fire-breather.”

  “Veleseor,” Morlen uttered, turning as Nottleforf quickly strode out beside him. “He’s struck Veleseor, as you feared.”

  “And they will stand little chance,” the wizard replied gravely, scanning far across the southern horizon. “Even if they evacuate, they will not get far with the skies handed to Felkoth.”

  Morlen peered farther north toward the capital, its airspace unoccupied despite each desperate alarm. And, convinced that this would not soon change, he walked forth and summoned Roftome down to the clearing, climbing up quickly to sit between his ready wings.

  “We will go,” he said, and Nottleforf stepped nearer beside them, distress in his old face outshone by hope.

  Looking up at him, no longer as a mere guardian to his ward, Nottleforf said, “Morlen, you go against more danger than I think you yet know. Hold to your strength. Hold to yourself, and to the one who flies with you, for you may find no aid in the air. Valdis will not send out his Eaglemasters tonight.”

  Preparing to lift off, Morlen’s expression was kinder as he regarded Nottleforf now than at any other time in their shared experience, feeling the unseen arm that had always held him at bay finally slacken.

  “Goodbye,” he said, knees tightening against Roftome’s sides. “Father of my fathers.”

  Saying nothing for a long moment, Nottleforf drew a slow breath behind only one word, though it was enough. “Goodbye,” he replied quietly, and with that, Roftome’s springing legs lunged away from the earth while powerful wings thrust them high above the forest, leaving him standing far below as he watched them shrink to a speck in starless skies. “Son of my sons.”

  Soaring upward through fierce wind, Morlen looked out with no apprehension as Roftome carried his weight like it were his own. Knowing what an unexpected pair they would make in the eyes of the Eaglemasters’ besieged people, the two companions sped on together, toward yearning jaws and fiery battle that undoubtedly sat ready for them, at the city of Veleseor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blade Meets Spear

  “GIVE THEM NOT one inch!” Lady Valeine yelled with the Crystal Spear pressed firmly against her chest plate, with four hundred aspiring soldiers in tight ranks on either side. “You’ve been preparing for some time to venture into their territory and prove your worth; now, they’ve simply saved you the trouble!”

  Their circular stone wall was broken and burnt, their archers charred beneath its rubble as hordes of ferotaurs spilled in, swarming up the central road toward the city’s only line of defense.

  “An Eaglemaster is deadlier on the ground than in the sky!” called Valeine. “And you are all the closest to Eaglemasters this kingdom has, since those previously honored with that title now stand hopeless behind the capital walls. Tonight, you will give them a reason to hope! And they will fly behind you, their betters, into many battles to come!”

  The rallying youths silently planted themselves with weapons aimed forward, united by her courageous heart, while the first enemy wave lowered thick horns to crush their skulls.

  “Front rank ready!” she ordered, pleased by the stumbling advance of those that now saw the Crystal Spear positioned toward them. Their malicious eyes widened while speed drove them nearer, and thick pale arms raised rusted scythes as the space between both forces dwindled.

  “Thrust!” she bellowed to her troops, skewering a gnarled ribcage when a storm of metal and slimy flesh crashed into them. Every fighter beside her followed suit, impaling the foes before them while comrades in the second rank struck over their shoulders with synchronized precision.

  Brandishing the Crystal Spear, she slashed its razor edge through the face of one assailant nearest her left, twirling it high to change grip while swinging its horned base down through another’s skull.

  “You’ve not forgotten this spear!” She scorned all that poured in, and rammed its shaft forward to shatter every tooth in an oncoming mouth. Then she ducked a swishing slice for her neck while severing the enemy’s leg, and pounded its collapsed body into snow and dirt with a forceful strike. “It will taste a great many of you before the night’s through!” She plucked the weapon free, standing ready while all challengers diverted to the men at her sides, who were doubly fierce now under her watch.

  But soon, skill could not hold against sheer pressure as thousands now flowed against their makeshift dam, flooding every inch of space between them and the breached city wall. She glanced toward the north gate, relieved to see the last clusters of people filing out, and hoped only to buy them enough time. Blood began to splash within her own ranks as outnumbering swords defied every defensive measure, until they had no choice but to pull back.

  “Hold formation!” she commanded, suppressing all grief for their dead who now lay flattened beneath the vicious onslaught. The battalion scuttled backward with quick step
s while batting away every beast that jumped forth, trying to maintain a spear’s length of separation from the endless tide. But it became clear the tireless assault would overtake them unless they ran.

  “To the gate! Now!” She turned, driving the rest to do the same, and retreated behind them toward the open exit just a mile ahead, through which her people had finally escaped. “Seal it from the inside, and guard it to the very end!” she charged, hoping at least, when they no longer stood, the ferotaurs would be too inept to open it and become trapped.

  The lumbering invaders lagged farther behind with every minute, giving them ample time to prepare a final stand when they reached the wide gateway. Each half of the battalion massed along its two thick doors of stone, pushing them closed as sturdy iron hinges squealed. Then, having climbed rungs centered in the right-hand door, one man went to a large winch and wound it while great metal claws slowly protracted into curved channels within the left, sealing both together.

  “Make ready!” she called, assembling them once more against the gate. The advancing force was more scattered now, and an eager herd led out in front with viscous strings of slobber bobbing against fleshy chins and throats. She thought fondly of her eagle, whom she’d sent away not only to guard those fleeing the city, but also to deprive herself of any chance to become separated from her men and escape while they fell.

  She held the Crystal Spear high for what she knew would be the last time, and those around her beat their weapons upon their chest plates, standing ready to meet their rushing doom. The incensed pack spread wider apart, breaking formation as every member came running for its own chosen kill, not stalled in the slightest by the dense arrays of outstretched spears.

  “The pretty one is mine!” rasped the quickest among them, veering deliberately toward Valeine, who only dug her heels deeper, relishing its fatal choice.