A Facet for the Gem by C. L. Murray Page A

look back at the city. What would happen to Nottleforf once he could no longer hold the pressing beasts at bay? He watched with cautious relief when the Eaglemasters reached Korindelf and swooped down into it like a bursting storm cloud. But then he gasped as they emerged in fewer numbers with each pass, descending so low that they made themselves open targets. And Felkoth’s troops brought them down with precision, taking advantage of their fruitless attempt to distinguish friend from foe while the formation grew smaller, more disjointed with every minute.
    Then suddenly, droves of men on horseback began to appear in the distance, pouring out of Korindelf behind countless shriekers that sprinted on hands and feet, no longer restrained from following his trail. He shot onward with double haste, knowing Felkoth’s servants were coming for him.
    His horse’s breathing was becoming labored, and soon even the sharpest prod of his boots brought no change of pace. Looking back to see how close the enemies were, he realized with dismay they would be upon him in minutes. They had even commenced firing, hitting the ground only a few yards behind, and as his murky destination still lay far out of reach, he unslung the bow from his shoulder and gripped it tightly in one hand.
    Gradually the archers gained enough to place him in range of their arrows, which fell like a deadly rain on all sides. Then, despite his carefully improvised swerves to deny them any fixed target, a well-placed shot pierced the horse’s hind leg and sent it slamming into the ground with a cut-off scream. He was hurled forward, tumbling painfully through wet grass.
    As he rolled to a stop, he looked up in a panicked daze to see that two shriekers had broken away from the rest of the pack and were careening toward him. Smelling the animal’s spilt blood, they charged for the kill, drooling mouths agape. With all his arrows now loosely scattered, he scrambled to pick one up and frantically loaded it, firing at the bony assailant in front, which yelped shrilly with a punctured lung before falling. He had scarce time to prepare for the second that leapt over the fallen horse. Knifelike claws extended to impale and dissect him as he knocked its head back with a shot to the throat, and its dead weight flattened him.
    With its sickeningly slick pelt stretched over a tall, nearly human frame, the putrid carcass sagged on top of him despite his furious struggling until, with a desperate gasp, he broke free. The others, equally menacing and disfigured, were closing from fifty yards at most, and the men on horseback followed. He had no choice but to run now, and though his only possible refuge was at least one mile away, he sprinted against every sore tendon and spreading stitch.
    The lethal downpour was all around him, and failing muscles begged him to submit to what only sheer chance could delay. What was the use of even trying to get beyond the Isle’s dense vapors, when all others had found them to be impenetrable?
    It was someplace new, he thought. And if he actually got there, no one could say he did not belong. He would be past the confines of what so many people had told him he was, and would finally get to explore the other side. Or die trying to get there.
    With this fresh solace in mind, heavy limbs and depleted air were replenished tenfold, and his eyes lit up like embers. Felkoth’s men pressed in, seconds away from shooting a thousand holes into him, and the lead shriekers were raring to devour his riddled corpse. They unleashed their volley, but then watched in confusion as every arrow pierced nothing but soil while he suddenly sprang out of reach, surpassing even their own rate of gain.
    Morlen’s extremities became blurred, and his rapidly moving feet seemed not to even touch earth. The blue mists for which he forged were close now, rising hundreds of feet high, and he could do no more than hope that once he reached them, he would be able to pass