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

through. Bolting forth with one last surge of energy, he took a deep breath and then plunged headfirst, disappearing into the billowing bright fog.
    The soldiers witnessed this with a shudder, and the shriekers nervously skidded to a halt a safe distance away. Those on horseback maintained full pursuit, thinking that they too would be able to breach the confounding borders, but it was as though they slammed into a rock wall, and all were thrown violently to the ground.
    Screaming in disgrace, they cursed the boy who had eluded them, the boy who held what their master wanted. The thought of returning to him empty-handed filled them with dread, as his wrath would be terrible. But now, they had no other option.
     
    Felkoth’s boots sloshed in the reddened fields of Korindelf, littered with bodies of fallen Eaglemasters and their fearsome birds. He wished that Valdis could have been among the dead, but had watched him lead the airborne retreat, undoubtedly knowing the dire consequences that any future trespass would elicit.
    Outside the city gate, he stood surrounded by many packs of shriekers whose stained jaws were briefly appeased, while the people of Korindelf who had not fallen prey to them were locked away, now enslaved to expand his realm. He awaited the return of his prize, as well as what little might be left of the thief who had stolen it, and cast hateful regard on the one standing before him bound in chains, who had helped the boy escape. Nottleforf was breathing heavily, greatly taxed from holding so many at bay until the soldiers had emerged and seized him.
    “What shall I do, Nottleforf?” he said with playful disdain. “Now, when I am finally king, you give what is mine to a mere boy? I would relish cutting that meddlesome tongue in two, and watching the rest of you slowly wither. But look at what you did to poor Nefandyr. Surely he deserves his revenge as well, wouldn’t you agree?”
    Nottleforf glanced at the soldier he’d blasted with fire, whose horse Morlen had used to get away, holding his blistered face tenderly. The man’s eyebrows were singed off, and his scalp was red and peeling beneath a hairline that seemed to have permanently receded. “I think the look suits him well,” he answered.
    Screaming in anger, the lieutenant leapt forth with sword raised, but Felkoth held him back upon seeing that the legions he’d sent out were finally returning. He strode swiftly to them, trying in vain to glimpse the Goldshard and the one who had taken it. “Where is it?” he demanded violently. “Where is the boy?”
    One man dismounted and reluctantly approached, his radiating fear needing little elaboration. “My lord,” he whispered, “the boy escaped. Into the Isle.”
    Felkoth glared with disbelief. Tasting deprivation again, he released a grunt of outrage and took off the man’s head, then spit in disdain as the lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Escaped? Where none but a select few had ever come and gone? He turned to Nottleforf, nostrils flared. “I swear to you—I will drain every drop of the slime that flows through your veins if you do not answer me. The boy… who is he?”
    Nottleforf showed no hint of fear whatsoever, letting his body meld with the air, and the shackles binding him fell in a clanking heap as he began to drift weightlessly, carried on a gust toward the West. His voice resonated like the wind itself:
    “The last son of Morthadus was mine to protect, and he goes where you cannot:
    Where worldly snares have no effect, where wars are never fought.
    So seek what spurns your reaching hand, and you may find no rest
    Till he returns upon this land, from within the Isle of the Bless’d.”
    They stood and watched him vanish, and even Felkoth took in the spectacle with wonder. But with the wizard gone, he let his mind stray from thoughts of any who might challenge him now. Korindelf was his at last, and his prize lay somewhere in the Forbidden Isle, held by a runt who