A Facet for the Gem

by C. L. Murray

  His stomach sank, as any show of submission from the Eaglemasters was unprecedented. “And what about the four lower cities? What defense will they have?”

  Nottleforf shook his head, visibly weary. “The king thinks they are beyond saving, and that is not altogether mere pessimism, not with the overwhelming weapon now at Felkoth’s disposal. He has already prepared his last stand, thinking Felkoth will surely strike the capital as he did before. But… I am not so convinced.”

  “You think Felkoth would rather divide the Eaglemasters than take them all on at once?” asked Morlen.

  “I think he would savor their suffering for as long as possible. I think he would first have them watch as every blood-lusting wretch kept for centuries at the fringe was finally given safe passage to take its satisfaction. He will use his ascended position to make servants of all those who creep in the shadows, and only when Valdis has seen every brick toppled, and every soul devoured, will Felkoth finish him.”

  Staring off in silence, Morlen knew the king must be swayed quickly if any challenge was to be mounted against such an offensive. But, to be heard, he would have to first prove himself a worthy ally, to instill in them enough confidence to meet the coming tide before it spread too far. He would need every advantage possible, all strength and guidance to be found, if he were to draw them out of hopelessness and add their momentum to his.

  Nottleforf seemed to know where his mind was going, like the trail he had promised to help uncover now lay inescapably before them both, when Morlen finally said, “I need to find him now, Nottleforf. I need to find Morthadus.”

  Unable to abide his scrutiny, Nottleforf looked away through the forest, perhaps toward the very place he felt so reluctant to explore. “He may not help you,” the wizard warned. “You may wish you’d never sought him out… as will he.”

  Morlen refused to withdraw his attention. “I must,” he pressed adamantly, saying nothing more as Nottleforf pivoted, doubling the space between them.

  They stood silently, until Nottleforf uneasily gave a deep sigh, ready to yield. “There is a cave,” he said with reservation, “at the northernmost point of this system. If you fly to the corner of the forest just overlooking the river, you will find its entrance in a small crevice at the mountain base. The tunnel leads deeper than any man would dare crawl. It is there, I believe, that you may find him.”

  Back still turned, Nottleforf gave no other movement or sound, waiting only for his departure, and perhaps the peace in solitude that it would bring.

  “Thank you,” said Morlen, briskly climbing onto Roftome’s waiting back and launching up while Nottleforf returned to his quarters.

  Gliding along the bristly forest roof blurred by Roftome’s speed, Morlen looked unwaveringly ahead. He felt great promise to be found in the small patch hugging the distant mountain base, and in the one who dwelt far below, no longer to be obscured from his sight.

  The city of Veldere rang with mournful silence for both dead and living, as every Eaglemaster stood shoulder to shoulder on its walls, staring for the first time with dread up at the skies. Deep within the citadel’s great hall, gilded with silver that now appeared dull and tarnished in the absence of laughter, King Valdis sat colorless and rigid on a cold throne.

  “You cannot lie down before him like this,” Valeine implored with stained cheeks, though she held firmly against more tears. Her older brother leaned against the wall of a nearby corridor with his head pressed against the inner bend of his arm, muffling each sob that was ripped forth by memory of the two faces he’d never see again. They still shone as clearly as when he’d left them the previous day, an act for which he would never forgive himself.

  “The four lower cities swell beyond capacity with all our people,” she persisted. “If you leave them vulnerable you erase all we’ve ever bled for, all reason to have ever called ourselves a kingdom of free men, women, children. You erase all hope… Father.”

  Valdis slouched forward, lost in every nebulous swirl rippling through the marble floor, as though to dive out might submerge him in a dense cloud that would crush all memory away.

  Giving only a feeble rasp, he muttered, “He is coming. He will come… I know.”

  Frustration drew her aggressively toward him, though he paid no heed to her advance. It took every ounce of restraint in her possession not to reach out and grab him by each shoulder, knowing that even with such a physical act she stood powerless to restore any purpose in him.

  “How can you be so sure he will strike here?” she demanded, louder now. “How can you yield the sky to him so openly, when he could just as easily roast you where you sit half-dead? What if he moves on my city first with the allegiance of the ferotaurs, who would gladly serve any with the means to provide them a full breach of our borders? Will you let my people fall first to them?”

  His head bobbling as though barely attached, Valdis could not bring himself to look up. He merely studied the long spear laid down at his feet, its upper half of bright crystal beckoning to be wielded by arms he no longer desired to lift.

  “He will come,” he repeated. “He will.”

  Her stinging eyes remained locked on him, threatening to soon give way, until she was unable to look even a moment longer at what he had become. Seeing the Crystal Spear relinquished between them, she stepped closer and drew it up, striking its base forcefully to the floor, and the sound of it bounced across the hall.

  Bending down toward him, she said without sympathy, “If you won’t bear this any longer, I will.” Then, unwilling to waste another moment, she turned and strode hastily out into the courtyard where her eagle sat ready to fly.

  “Where are you going?” asked Verald hotly, following her out of the castle as he wiped his face of any smudge.

  “Where I must,” she replied, mounting her carrier with the Crystal Spear at her side.

  “If he strikes Veleseor you’ll stand no chance!”

  “It is my city; they are my people,” she answered, pinning him with a scathing glare. “They will stand a chance with me, and with you too if you have the stomach.” Saying no more, she sharply faced forward as the bird launched away, flying far above all others who were committed now only to ground, and disappeared off toward the realm’s southern edge.

  Sitting alone in the rusting hall, Valdis clung to the only remaining comfort he had, envisioning what would cleanse him of all fear, all doubt, and bring him fully revived to his feet. Only at the coming of the hero with the Crystal Blade, whom he’d imagined so vividly for years, would he rise again.

  And the hero would come, very soon. He had to come.

  Morning had grown late when Morlen and Roftome neared the northeast corner of the forest, touching down on a carpet of needles just below the mountains.

  “You really mean to crawl like the tiniest of mice through some unstable fissure?” Roftome protested as Morlen dismounted and approached the snow-packed base. “Such low places were not meant for men, not even the worst ones I’ve met in my long days.”

  Disconcerted to see no visible opening as Nottleforf had described, Morlen knew he would have to dig out a substantial area before pinpointing the entrance. “I mean to, yes,” he answered, scraping away one small dent at a time. “I mean to face the first of my father’s line, and see what value there is in my being the last.”

  Displeased at the sight of him toiling alone, Roftome reluctantly stepped beside him and used both feet with outstretched talons to sweep a flurry past his tail feathers. “It may not be wise to seek one who dwells so far below,” he warned. “He may not be so welcoming toward any who would uncover him.”

  Morlen said nothing at this, though it slowed his efforts slightly to picture the hostile response his presence might incite, especially from one fabled to be so powerful, so long removed from any contact, light, or sound.

  “If there is at least a part of him that wants to emerge,” he replied as freshly exposed stone glistened between them, “then, finding that,
finding him, might help me as well.”

  Mounds piled higher behind them while they spread across the frost-coated mountain base until, prying away another dense clump, Morlen found a narrow mouth in the rock that seemed to splinter farther out. “Here,” he said, moving to what he imagined would be its center while Roftome sidled over, clearing more away. The jagged fracture tapered only inches wider as Morlen began gutting the ice within the middle, and he realized he would have to flatten himself completely in order to even break through.

  “I hope your back is as tough-skinned as it is strong,” said Roftome, bending his neck to peer inside. “This will not expand for many long crawls.”

  Brushing away the last handfuls of snow from tight jaws that grinned before him, he listened to every cold drip inside their awaiting throat, echoing to the same recess much farther down, where he knew he must go. He removed his cloak and draped it over Roftome’s folded wings, kneeling beside the inhospitable entrance. His left arm was the first to brave its scathing bite, until both were wedged in far enough that he could pull his upper body in next, and he slithered deeper, straining to keep his face elevated while his scalp scraped sorely above.

  Pulling with chilled fingers while bent, cramping legs fully extended, he suddenly felt empathy for the slimiest insects as he repeated his slinking crawl many times. Each frigid droplet that fell on the back of his neck made him feel that the crushing roof was steadily lifting. He could see from what little daylight trickled in that the cave opened some twenty yards ahead to a capacity through which he could move more comfortably, though still on hand and knee. Beyond that point, though, all was concealed and quiet, divulging no sign of his uncharted destination, or of anyone within.

  Morthadus could sense the youngest drawing closer while he lay still upon the cave floor. He hoped in vain for just a moment’s peace in sleep; apprehension of the encounter only plunged him deeper into dreaded memory, bringing him back again to that night when his brothers had fallen.

  Standing alone, he swung his sword wildly into the shriekers, sending many heads flying through the ranks that gave way to his path, and he pushed forward until he was away from the cruel vapors. Those who tried to strike him lost their arms, while any who bit felt his blade on their throats, falling dead by the dozens until soon those who remained began to back away, watching him with terror.

  “This one is powerful,” a fearful whisper seethed. “Who is he?”

  The voice spoke again in his mind with softness concealing urgency. “Ninety-nine are here… only one more…”

  But, standing before the savage host that trembled now under his burning focus, he could bear to listen no longer. Gathering every last reserve of energy left within, he pushed the shiver out of his spirit and shouted, “I am Morthadus of the Blessed Ones!”

  Suddenly his foes stood suspended, unmoving all around, and the mountainside was flooded with brilliant blue light into which he stared, knowing it would give no sting. In the center of the light was a figure, like a man, who floated beside him amid the carnage.

  “Korine,” he said in awe while taking in the mystic form, which was encircled by the wind itself like a robe of infinite color, and across his broad chest was a long dark gash from which bright mists flowed.

  “Morthadus, my time will soon be at an end,” said Korine as his life force pooled on the rocks around them. “The greatest hope left to challenge Him when He returns, rests upon you.”

  Staring into the dense shadow that would one day return to engulf all of Cryntor, he wondered what possible feat he could accomplish. “What do you ask of me?” he whispered.

  With a smile that drove out all fear, Korine answered, “I ask you to live, Morthadus. Live, so that the Blessed Ones may never be extinguished.”

  He writhed, half-awake, against each prodding rock, his restless mind begging every faculty he had surrendered to sleep and dreams to return before the scene went any further.

  “Your children will have your strength, your speed. But, either by the sword, or when they stand frail and soft while you remain of good flesh, they will die.”

  Then, turning to the ninety-nine swords that had fallen at the edge of the black mists, Korine raised his arms to draw them into the air together, and then drove their blades into the ground to line the great abyss. At the center of the line remained a space, wide enough for one more.

  “There may come a time when you will no longer want to be Morthadus of the Blessed Ones,” Korine warned. “When it does, return to this place, and lay your sword to rest beside the others.”

  Morlen stifled each groan while he dragged himself farther across the sharp, rocky floor, unsure how any sudden noise might affect the spiked ceiling only inches above. Finally, his head and shoulders jutted into a wider cavity past the elongated mouth. Emerging intact within far more generously spaced walls, he allowed himself a breath of ease, though visibility was now all but gone.

  A small amount of light still reflected off the rocks, but its source was not the entrance left behind, he realized. This seemed to pour in from farther ahead, dimmed by every bend and slope. Still prohibited from standing, he tripled his initial pace and kept himself centered as the tunnel narrowed to a declining chute.

  He disregarded each pinching bump to his ribs while space grew considerably scarcer, and soon was on his stomach once more, looking at the chute’s end a short distance away, lit from below by whatever glow had led him this far. Clawing now just to gain a few inches at a time, he held the bright opening firmly with unblinking eyes, letting go all expectations of what, or whom, he would find on the other side.

  Morthadus sank deeper as he knew the youngest would find him at any moment, and his dream carried him through time and space.

  Korine was sending him away, and the ancient one’s image slowly faded as radiant mists continued to bleed from the grim wound, bringing death closer with each passing second. The Crystal Blade shone between them now, left to be claimed by one who could make the journey. Feeling like scattered feathers in the wind, he held as long as he could to the shrinking picture—endless lines of ghouls soon to find him gone, the blanket of light that sat motionless over the ground, and the one standing within, who finally expired as the last of his power blasted a great distance between them.

  He soared far until eventually coming to rest someplace warm, green. Lying face-down upon grass more fragrant than any he’d ever known, he rolled onto his back and looked up to find himself in a bright meadow painted with colors that defied earthly existence. Having barely the time to wonder if he was the only one within its sprawling wonders, he felt a smooth hand touch his shoulder, and turned without fear to see a young woman.

  She was tall and sleek, with golden hair surpassed by the brightness of her smile, and her eyes met with the subdued blue of his own. Crouching at his feet, she held out a round, pink object that glistened in the early morning light, saying in a way that drove all memory of the dark voice from his mind, “Eat.”

  She seemed to delight as much in his presence as he did in hers, and he gladly took her offering, sinking his teeth into the beautiful fruit as it stained his lips and soothed his vacant stomach, filling him with a rich warmth. His senses broadened to encompass things far beyond himself, and he swayed with the caress of each breeze, watching creatures great and lethal pass by as though his entrance into their realm was no threat.

  She heated his sluggish blood with a look he wished never to pass, gently pulling his hand closer while it still held the half-eaten apple to take a deep bite herself.

  “Can you feel it?” she asked.

  His eyes burned with their inner light once more. “Yes,” he answered hungrily. “I can feel it.”

  Morlen released every ounce of air that his compressed lungs could afford to lose while both shoulders forced their way out of the shrinking passage, and his pinned arms finally wrenched themselves free. He grabbed hold of an outcropping from the low ceiling ahead, lifting himself out to land
a few feet down upon a slope that descended into a deep opening. And the strange glow continued to flicker up, its source only a few footsteps away now, though he remained unsure whether it was indifferent to his approach, or unwelcoming.

  The rough floor stretched beneath steadily sinking walls until he had to crouch down again, sliding through a cylindrical, bright opening less than three feet in diameter. Midway through the connecting space, he stopped short, dazed as the most bewildering flashes passed behind his eyes, carrying with them a multitude of images too rapid to take in.

  He dragged onward, colors and figures blurring through his mind while he wriggled out into a round chamber, and rose slowly to see that he was quite alone. He stood immersed in pale vapors that poured in from a small crack in the rock above, and their potency was so increased in the confines of this room it was almost palpable.

  Recalling the banquet story from a few nights earlier, he realized he must be directly beneath the basin in which the crystals had been forged long ago. A powerful haze collected there at the head of the Speaking River, rumored to bring strange visions to all who breathed it. But, here it was highly concentrated, and its effects coursed through him before he could decide whether he wanted to see what it might bring.

  Inhaling slowly to only half his lungs’ capacity, he shed more reservation with each calming release, feeling no ill effect. He gave in as a bright, blurry canvas solidified before him, until he could no longer be sure if his eyes were open or closed. All he could do was watch as the light bent to reveal things for no other, but him.

  He saw his father—he was sure of it—looking strong, with fine color, not as Felkoth had left him. But, wait… It could not be Matufinn, though the resemblance was staggering. No… this man was younger, clean-shaven, his hair just as long but not so dark. His eyes were different, too. They were sharper, fiercer. No… this was someone yet to be born. He stood wielding a sword of bright blue flame, holding fast against a towering curtain that pressed down on him, enveloping, swallowing…