by C. L. Murray
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 cho
ice 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.
As the tattered cloth brushed his skin, making him feel he’d donned his boyish dress all over again, he parted the coarse fabric and dropped it aside, holding the jagged Goldshard tenderly within his palm. A rustling in the woods abruptly jolted him to his feet, and, not wishing to greet its source, he ran again.
This was his chance, now as he sprinted along the crest of a valley that sloped down within the forest. They were still coming; he hadn’t lost them completely. And… someone, the same from before, was closing in, perhaps watching him even now. Slowing to a halt, he lifted the Goldshard and stared hungrily into its smooth, bright center. “Make me strong,” he begged it. “Make me strong enough to defeat Felkoth. Strong enough to defeat all his armies. Give me all that I need… please.”
He waited for it to respond with some mystical infusion of power, squeezing so tightly his fingertips ached, when the cloaked man suddenly emerged from the nearby woods and came directly at him. Stepping back in startled surprise, Morlen lost his footing on the ravine’s precarious ledge and tumbled down as one rock after another took a hefty toll. Each boulder forcefully slowed his fall until he came to rest on his back, bloodied and disheveled, still firmly clasping the Goldshard.
Head spinning as his body screamed out, all he could make out was the blurred outline of the hooded figure, observing him from above, and then slowly descending toward him against a faded backdrop.
And then, finally, all went dark.
Chapter Nine
The Gem
MORTHADUS KNEW THEY were close. He’d dwelt below for so long, undisturbed, but the youngest would soon seek him out, and the other would no doubt show him the way. And though he had eluded that one for so many centuries, he could not elude them both, not for long.
He would never have peace, he lamented. They would find him, sooner rather than later. It was only a matter of time now, and he would have nowhere left to retreat.
Morlen quivered as they stood so menacingly around him, cold eyes stabbing deeper than their blades soon would. They barked with satisfaction, savoring each torturous moment while preparing to finish him. But then, the murderous huddle parted to reveal someone who stood in the surrounding brush: a boy, watching the scene fearfully. Lying in agony on his back, it took every ounce of dying strength to reach out to him, begging for help. But, the boy would not move. He was merely going to watch him die.
Screaming in sorrow, he rolled over the shadowy edge of a cliff, falling to his death. He slammed chest-first to hard ground, and the impact brought his nightmare to an abrupt end. Turning over slowly with a resentful groan, he shuddered to realize that he was underground, deep in the belly of a torch-lit chamber with jagged rock walls that rose to meet a ceiling of stalactites. Had Felkoth brought him back to Korindelf and locked him away beneath the castle?
Straining to push his body upright, he ascertained by the presence of select items—a fleece-covered armchair, a table strewn with cups, even a raised pallet off of which it seemed he’d fallen to the floor—that someone lived within this place. And, as far as he could detect, they were absent for the time being.
Thoughts of Felkoth quickly shot another pang of dread into his mind: What had become of the Goldshard? Had his captor taken it for himself, and used it? Searching frantically, he left no corner unchecked, when a bright ray flagged him from beneath the makeshift bed. There it was; it must have fallen from him when he’d rolled onto the floor, meaning whoever had brought him here hadn’t wanted it.
Its prickly edges were so welcome against his hand, and he placed it back within his inner chest pocket as his bruised memory gradually recalled bits and pieces of what had transpired before he’d awoken here. He’d used it, he suddenly remembered with a thrill. He’d used the Goldshard, during his final moments in the Isle! It was the last thing he could recollect; everything following the act remained blurred. That was why he ached so terribly; the shock from being imbued with the treasure’s power must have overwhelmed him, and would not soon pass.
Examining his muscles under the torchlight, he swelled with confidence, and hungered to face down Felkoth and all his men, wherever they may be. He would not be weak, not anymore.
His bow and quiver lay beside the sheathed Crystal Blade, close to where he’d been sleeping, and notions of capture partly faded. He appeared to be in the anteroom of a much larger complex that sprawled out into other chambers and passageways, and behind him a corridor held a small stairwell that led up to two trapdoors. Hearing voices above ground, he ascended the steps to push both wooden panels open in a cascade of displaced snow, and emerged in the middle of a clearing surrounded by tall firs and pines, drably colored by winter’s arrival.
“Well, you always do seem to find your way into some sort of trouble, don’t you?” spoke a voice he knew well, one he’d feared he would never hear again. Looking behind him, he saw the gray-bearded face he’d nearly forgotten, realizing the identity of the cloaked figure who had pursued him in the Isle.
“Nottleforf?” Morlen said with disbelief when the old man removed his hood.
“Yes, young Morlen,” he replied as Morlen came to stand before him. “My,” he marveled, now eye to eye with him. “Were I a lesser wizard, I might have taken you for Matufinn back in the Isle. He was close to your age when last we…”
Images from recent memory stabbed Morlen cruelly upon mention of his father, a pain that Nottleforf left alone before it bled worse.
“Let’s move along,” said the
wizard. “Needless to say, we have a great deal to discuss.”
But, Morlen could not avert his eyes from the black clouds in the distant sky, which billowed from the burning Isle. He worried for its many beasts and realized, from its location relative to his own, he must now be at the edge of the Eaglemasters’ realm.
“The Isle’s bloom will live on,” said Nottleforf sullenly, following his line of sight. “For all who remain inside.”
Morlen’s fists tightened as he pictured Felkoth’s army gathered in droves ten paces from his father’s body, knowing the poor measures he’d hurriedly taken to conceal it must have failed shortly thereafter.
“Have they come yet?” Morlen asked hotly, eager for the second chance to engage his pursuers.
Nottleforf’s voice carried warning. “No, Morlen.”
“They reached the lake before I fled,” said Morlen. “Felkoth’s bound to lead them through at any moment.”
“I mean, no, this battle is not yours,” Nottleforf clarified when Morlen turned to face him.
“Not mine?” Morlen protested. “You saw what he and I were up against in there. You saw them come for me after they’d finished with him. I’m ready now. I won’t run, not this time—”
“The Eaglemasters are well aware of what is coming,” Nottleforf interjected, holding up a hand to halt his restlessness. “King Valdis has suspected for some time that people from Korindelf were being brought into his realm, finally discovering exactly how after tracing members of the last group your father sent over. I brought warning to them after collecting you, and evacuation was already under way. Now Valdis and three thousand men-at-arms fly ready above the capital, waiting for foe, not friend.”
