A Facet for the Gem

by C. L. Murray

  “What are you called, by the other city men?” Roftome inquired bluntly.

  The smallest chuckle escaped Morlen’s lips under building pressure that threatened to pop his lungs. “The other city men… called me… many things,” he wheezed. “None of which… I would now repeat. But, you can call me Morlen, friend.”

  Roftome tilted his head downward, thinking a closer look might help him better hear what was said. “What did you call me?” he asked.

  Stamping the weight of four men through each narrow, snowy path, Morlen grunted, “What… friend? You understand it, don’t you?”

  Roftome’s sight lifted up again as he gave no answer, looking out on the bouncing white landscape beneath which he would have now been smothered and forgotten if not for this human. And Morlen held their course, snarling through each caustic exhalation that only made him want to stop and rest, after which, he knew, both of them together would not continue.

  Desperate not to lose his dwindling momentum, he drove on with a surge that would flatten him in a matter of minutes, realizing he did not need to endure longer than that as they’d surpassed the halfway mark. They were now merely a hundred feet or so from the hive of refugees and the opening of his quarters, where Nottleforf dwelt close by. “Hold steady now,” he panted, doubling his efforts in a final march that would see him either reach his destination or crumple short of it with ruptured organs.

  As his faculties began to recede, Roftome shivered as the pressing cold overwhelmed his draining life’s blood, which still trickled out through a dozen stab wounds. He bit down on his carrier’s cloak with a laughable force that any captive fish would surely escape unharmed.

  Morlen felt the eagle’s rapid faltering, too, and moved forward while clutching the dangling garment tight in his fists, steering through camouflaged contours that threatened to bring them down. His lower spine shot one blinding flash after another behind wind-burnt eyes, and he kept them open only because the tall oak above his chamber finally came into view. He could not stop… not yet; the eagle had but minutes left.

  His feet scuffed the ground with each pitiful stride, leaving not foot prints but long tracks, and he could not even lift his head. His thighs and calves lost their ability to anchor and navigate simultaneously, throwing him ahead on feet that would no longer hold him, till his only remaining option would be to dive as close to safety as he could.

  Breaking through one last row of trees into the open clearing, his flesh seemed to lose its structural form altogether, careening immediately at the sight of the trail’s end toward a violent fall that could inflict irreparable damage to both of them. He gathered one last breath, kneeling with legs half-submerged in snow before the hidden stairwell while pressing wobbly arms upward to brace the eagle’s body, which sank chest-first against the ground. Then he wrapped his hands around each set of talons to pluck them delicately away as the remaining weight slid off his shoulders with a soft thud.

  Collapsing atop the icy soil, too numb and drained to reach for his cloak that was still clasped in the near-unconscious eagle’s beak, he was relieved to find it unnecessary to yell out to Nottleforf, who ascended quickly through the opening door.

  “Don’t,” Morlen urged at sight of the wizard. “Don’t take him underground… not underground…”

  “Easy, now,” Nottleforf soothed in reply as a warm gust suddenly pried Morlen away from the frost. It landed him upright while supporting his swaying body with centrifugal force that kept weight off of both buckling legs, and heated his blood.

  “He’s stabbed, dying… Felkoth…” Morlen muttered, arms and legs gradually tingling back to life under less strain.

  “Shhhh. Rest a moment,” said Nottleforf, delicately hoisting the eagle up on another bed of air that rose higher until both dangling wings touched no ground. Then, he set four tall pieces of timber as corner-posts, over which he threw a flowing blanket that draped down as a makeshift tent to ward off the snow.

  Revolving ancient, wrinkled hands around one another as though winding yarn into an invisible ball, Nottleforf rotated the eagle over slowly to study each slash through the crimson-dyed feathers. And Morlen watched over his shoulder, still cradled by crutches of air.

  “Can you stand?” Nottleforf called out, his attention fixed on the eagle as Morlen tested his recuperating legs and lower back, which were sorely responsive.

  “Yes,” he answered, half-sure, and the wizard waved a hand to disperse the encircling breeze, leaving him to limp until he gradually straightened.

  “Bring me rabbits,” ordered Nottleforf, certain that he needed not repeat himself. Morlen scuttled down the open stairwell into his awaiting quarters, emerging with his bow and quiver, and bent stiffly to don his cloak where it had fallen from the eagle’s grasp. He strode as quickly as he could into the nearby woods, scanning for any movement in the pure white landscape.

  The eagle’s energy swam in his periphery, pulsing weakly. To carry was not enough; he would have to feed, nurture, or all else would be in vain, no matter how extensive Nottleforf’s skills. He had to work fast, and return even faster. And he would, before it was too late.

  Morthadus watched him from below—the youngest, brimming with hunger and enthusiasm. Soon he would begin to search; there was no doubt. He would first search high, search every slope and peak. Then, inevitably, he would search low.

  No man could tread as far down as he dwelt, but still, he knew, with the other’s help, the youngest would find him… they would both find him.

  He withdrew his gaze quickly, collecting it back within himself, as the youngest was always keeping alert for his presence now, and would know its source if he was not careful.

  Know… He cringed at the notion. The youngest would not want to know, or even see, what was left of him.

  Pleased with the heft of two fresh kills that swung from his hip, Morlen meticulously followed the trail of faint indentations that forged out from some adjacent brush. Slowly he pulled his arrow back, gritting his teeth through each creak of the drawn bowstring that warned his prey, which he spotted now. Its short teeth whittled away at a stalk until the thick arrow struck it squarely and plunged it through inches of snow.

  He hurriedly grabbed just below the fletching that stuck out like a flag, and wrenched up his spoils, tying the carcass to the others at his side. Confident his provisions would prove sufficient for the immediate care Nottleforf needed to administer, he rushed back along his own tracks to deliver them, knees and back throbbing with each impact.

  A fire now crackled in a shallow pit beside the occupied tent, and over the flames sat a kettle, steam rising from its unknown contents. Nottleforf worked busily along the eagle’s torn back and neck. Every gash was coated in a gleaming aloe salve, some of the worst ones already sewn shut while the wizard continued to maneuver needle and thread.

  Without a glance, Nottleforf beckoned him, taking the three rabbits. Gently spinning his winged patient to face upward, he made a small incision in one of the carcasses and hung it from the tent above to allow a few droplets of blood to drip every few seconds into the half-open beak, and both eyes on either side abruptly gleamed with a whetted appetite.

  “You possess strong shoulders indeed, young Morlen,” he lauded, skinning and gutting the other two.

  Morlen followed with great intrigue as Nottleforf carried both pink, fleshy kills to the fire, dropping them through the greenish-brown surface of the kettle’s glowing liquid, which immediately billowed a pungent metallic aroma. It made him nauseatingly certain it would be well received by any creature whose diet contained a great deal of blood.

  “To bear the greatest of all eagles through such unstable turf, let alone hoist him up from his flattened, broken state,” Nottleforf continued, stirring the thick concoction while Morlen turned to study the unmoving bird, who lay silent though increasingly awake beneath the steady trickle of sustenance.

  “Greatest?” he asked, rubbing sore muscles around each tender disk i
n his back. “I was sure he had to be one of a select few, but… how do you know, exactly?”

  “Morlen,” said Nottleforf, looking at him now, “do you think one who has traveled as far and wide as I could mistake such a creature, the object of lore and quest for so many? That is Roftome, the mountain eagle whose unmatched size and speed have made him a coveted acquisition for the men of Veldere over the last two centuries, at least.”

  Morlen’s brows arched high, though he had little difficulty believing this. “Roftome,” he said warmly, glancing over at the eagle with pride. “He seemed opposed to all men when I first made my intentions known, though I can understand why, given his condition.”

  “All eagles are opposed to men, initially,” replied Nottleforf. “Until their aversion is overridden by trust and affection, cultivated by those who seek to ride them and become masters. But Roftome is called ‘Untamable’ for a reason; he is not just slightly more difficult to win over than his brothers and sisters. I’ve not heard of any hopefuls he’s ever put to death, but he’s sunk the fear of it into many the moment their armored backsides presumed to rest between his wings.”

  Morlen flinched while brushing the eight shallow puncture marks unintentionally inflicted on his back, pitying any who’d fall under those talons when driven by even modest strength. “Will you be able to heal him?” he asked.

  Nottleforf nodded in cautious affirmation. “The next day will tell,” he said tentatively, testing the viscosity of the boiling medicinal mixture before him and grunting in approval. “The eagles outlive generations of men, a quality that may pair quite well with what skill I possess, but Roftome here appears to have encountered a predator whose thirst he underestimated. This remedy will work to replenish his depleted blood; that is the gravest concern. Then, after we set his bones, he must rest.”

  Nottleforf lifted the searing-hot kettle off its seat in the fire and twisted it down into the snow to yield a palatable temperature. After constantly stirring it to hasten the cooling process, he then brought it still steaming to the eagle’s side with a large wooden spoon. He prodded the murky contents wherein the meat of both rabbits seemed to have dissolved, leaving only polished, bobbing bones.

  Without fear of a violent recoil, Nottleforf lifted a brimming spoonful toward the awaiting beak. Yet Roftome looked only at Morlen, either for approval of the feeding hand or to further assess the aim in bringing him here. Regardless, he took the muddy green helping in one subdued snap which Nottleforf quickly followed with another, repeating through many servings.

  “Good,” said Nottleforf, pulling away to return the kettle, now half empty, to its fire. Then, gesturing for Morlen to stand behind Roftome’s head, he said, “Now, carefully lift his wing.”

  Morlen was reluctant to handle Roftome’s broken limb, as he was certain the eagle had already experienced enough discomfort with which to associate him. But, gently hooking both arms under the dangling left wing, he elevated it slowly to be parallel with the ground, squinting through each disorienting ache that struck him like an electric current through Roftome.

  Nottleforf did not need to look closely; the wing bone was snapped, with one half’s jagged end pinned beneath the other, and dislocated too from its joint below the eagle’s neck. “Hold him firmly now,” he charged, old hands clamping both dexterous and strong on either side of the fracture, and Morlen pressed up with equal resistance. He willed Roftome to keep calm, to trust that this procedure was only meant for good despite the agony that threatened to expel every ounce of his ingested medicine.

  Suddenly a hot wave pulsed from Nottleforf’s fingertips throughout every feather and tendon of the crooked wing. His grip tightened around both split sections of bone that slowly repelled one another as though by some building energy field, until, when enough separation had been gained, he drew both together with an unnerving crunch. The radiating warmth concentrated more intensely on the spot of their merger, seemingly melding the pieces as one bone, which Nottleforf forcefully pulled back into its socket with another sickening pop.

  Morlen exhaled with relief, sensing a swell of ease in Roftome, as though the worst had passed. He waited while Nottleforf expanded the eagle’s dense bed of air to support his now-mended wing, and released it with great care.

  Nottleforf smiled under a glistening brow. “You both did well,” he praised, exposing the lacerated back once more. “After he’s stitched, we’ll be in smoother waters. Bring the kettle, and let the remainder cool a bit while I finish with these.” He drew his needle and thread out again, weaving nimbly through each open wound while Morlen took the pot from its fire.

  Nottleforf parted one reddened downy tuft after another, and finally broached the subject that Morlen wouldn’t open. “Felkoth escaped, then,” he said flatly.

  Morlen silently resented the bitter reminder. No matter how hard he looked, Felkoth’s sinister presence now eluded him. Whether this indicated that the eagles had overpowered him, he could not be certain. “I don’t know,” he answered, discouraged. “He may not have gotten far, hunted the way he was. But, King Valdis and his men will find him, won’t they? I doubt they’ll rest until he’s captured, dead or alive.” He waited expectantly for a heartening response, deflating a little as the wizard seemed not so sure.

  “Soon, the Eaglemasters will have to decide whether to move on Korindelf, once their capital has been secured,” said Nottleforf. “They’ll know it will be prudent to free the remaining prisoners, before the shriekers get the notion that he will not return.”

  “It matters little whether he does or not,” Morlen replied, envisioning Felkoth ruling his obedient horde even from afar. “He commands them at this very moment, and if the Eaglemasters drive them out of Korindelf, they’ll still be a weapon in his grip, no matter where he goes.”

  Nottleforf continued working busily, his thread passing higher through Roftome’s mended flesh. “Yes,” he said, “and I fear, as I did before the battle, that this will certainly not be the last we see of him.”

  He delayed his efforts with the eagle momentarily, facing Morlen now. “But today is a day of victory, and you must savor it while you can, for seldom will such days repeat. The greater of Felkoth’s two armies has been crushed, leaving him cut off from his seat of power, stranded in the very realm he failed to conquer. His deepest concern now will be to survive, to find cover and plan his next move somewhere remote. Yours must be to gather your strength, and take joy, too,” he urged, turning to regard Roftome. “If not for yourself, then for this creature, who will ride many winds to come, because of you.”

  Morlen’s tense expression relaxed at the sight of the eagle’s stout chest inflating with full breaths. The few wounds left to tell of his ordeal would soon be closed, and his feathers were kept warm above the piling flakes. Looking again at Nottleforf, he was glad to have made good on his promise to deliver Roftome to one who could provide such skillful healing.

  Recognizing this, Nottleforf resumed his sewing, bringing it near completion. “You’d do well to eat something yourself,” the wizard urged. “Performing such a feat as you have is troublesome enough, but on an empty stomach…”

  Nottleforf needed to say no more. Morlen understood that he could do nothing else to help for the time being, feeling far more in need of rest than a meal. With another long glance at Roftome, he made for the trapdoor.

  “I’ve prepared some food already in your quarters,” Nottleforf called over his shoulder. “I’ll finish here in no time, and set a small perimeter so he’s not disturbed, but you can still see him whenever you like.”

  Morlen bobbed his head in acknowledgment through a wide yawn, limping down to the warm chamber where a heated pot emitting aromatic waves of cinnamon did not tempt in the slightest. He surrendered himself to the well-blanketed pallet, and quickly faded to sleep.

  Felkoth ground his teeth with each throb, tightening a torn section of cloth above a deep gash in his arm. He spat on the feathery corpse whose blood drained fro
m a poisoned slash, smelling already of putrid rot, and the bird’s overzealous companion lay close behind, with its beak and face nearly hewn off.

  He’d reached the base of the Eagle Mountains, and would have to scale the cliffs while keeping out of sight. As soon as he found a secluded cave or fissure, he could lie low for a few days, since the Eaglemasters would quickly be out in droves, searching until he was found.

  He would let the Eaglemasters sniff every tree until his trail went cold. And when they departed to claim his city, he would re-enter the forest, take the Goldshard along with the boy’s head, and lay waste to every bird and knight.

  Wiping it clean of the sticky mass of blood and feathers, he drew the Dark Blade close, speaking to address the awaiting shriekers. “My faithful beasts,” he whispered reassuringly, “I shall return to you soon, with the flesh of thousands for you to feast upon, I promise. Hold my city, at all costs. May not the presence of any Eaglemaster in my realm go unanswered. Gather all the people close around you; let them shield you from every arrow, and swiftly unleash your own, until the bird-riders’ ranks fall from the sky to your jaws. Hold my city. Hold it for your king, and I will reward your loyalty for ages to come.” The Dark Blade absorbed each word, transmitting them to the endless packs around Korindelf, who heard their master clearly.

  Sheathing the sword, he dabbed at a trail of blood that still ran down his face from an open wound, carved in his violent dismount from the eagle he’d left for dead in the forest. He gripped a nearby outcropping and slowly climbed the sheer brown mountain that was marbled with so many white veins. His enemies might rest a little easier, thinking him gone for good, but soon they’d see he could not be beaten. And he would never be forgotten.