A Facet for the Gem by C. L. Murray Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. L. Murray
ever asked is that you do not strip away what I’ve earned. I love you, and always have.”
The king laughed mockingly. “If only that were true,” he lamented. “But I know you, Felkoth. You love only power.” At that, he turned his back and walked away, the decision final.
Felkoth reeled from the blow, bitterly fathoming that he was to be denied what should have been given to him and no other. The numbness slowly melted, and he stood watching the king peer out over Korindelf on the wide balcony behind his chamber. Then, finally, he pivoted away and left without uttering a sound.
Pacing down the hallway, he knew what was rightfully his would be snatched away in mere moments. Soon he came upon his lieutenant, who awaited him near the stairwell.
“What news, my lord?” Nefandyr asked, his eyes bright with anticipation of good word.
What news indeed? With all the forces he had labored for years to amass, he could still be opposed, even defeated. There was only one way to seal his victory, and he could never let it slip away from reach. “Nefandyr,” said Felkoth in a deep exhale, “alert the men to wait for my signal. And then,” he trailed off, preparing for violent redemption, “take the city.”
Nefandyr bowed his head obediently. Then he asked, “My lord, what signal?”
“You will know when it is given.”
“Yes, my lord,” Nefandyr replied, making haste for the lower levels.
Then Felkoth, alone in the long, quiet hallway, drew the Dark Blade from its sheath under his robes, and began to speak purposefully, letting each word reverberate off of its cold, unnatural metal. “My beasts,” he called to those that remained in hiding at the end of his lengthy underground passage, which opened up just a mile outside the city gate. “The time has arrived for you to return to Korindelf, to taste the blood of free men once more, to fill your aching bellies and forget the cruel sting of hunger. Come now to the city, as you did centuries ago, and none will be able to deter you.” On hearing their new master’s call, the shriekers emerged by the thousands and hurtled toward Korindelf, licking their fangs in anticipation of the bounty ahead.
Having delivered his orders, Felkoth marched back through the hallway until coming again to the royal chamber’s closed door. He entered, and the king met him with a startled expression that turned to scorn. “Do not come to dissuade me now,” he admonished.
But Felkoth approached him nonetheless, closer now than he’d been before. “You want to know exactly what I’ve done?” he hissed with a growing smile. “Do you want to know how I won your war so easily? I rode alone into the heart of the Dead Plains, where no man of Korindelf has ever set foot. I rode where Mother told me to go before she died, where she said I would find my true father, her very own brother—can you imagine? The king of the South, high in his ancient keep, not quite the formidable adversary that myths and lore have made him over the years, I must say. A greasy fellow, really—unkempt, soiled in his own filth, but so pleased to finally receive one from his own lineage.
“We spoke briefly, as you might guess, exchanging pleasantries, reminiscing about lost relatives. Then I took his sword from him and ran it through his gut, watching him slip and fall in a pool of blood while the word ‘son’ still echoed from wall to wall. After that, I doused him and the rest of his tower with the casks of siege oil he kept in such ample supply, and burned it all to the ground.”
The king tried to make for the door, but Felkoth stepped directly in front of him. “I know you met the shriekers in battle when you were young, insulated by your many swordsmen who took the brunt of their assault. But oh, if you could hear their cries all around you, rising for miles upon miles in every direction. You speak of horrors the world has faced—the world does not know horror, Father. Not
The king laughed mockingly. “If only that were true,” he lamented. “But I know you, Felkoth. You love only power.” At that, he turned his back and walked away, the decision final.
Felkoth reeled from the blow, bitterly fathoming that he was to be denied what should have been given to him and no other. The numbness slowly melted, and he stood watching the king peer out over Korindelf on the wide balcony behind his chamber. Then, finally, he pivoted away and left without uttering a sound.
Pacing down the hallway, he knew what was rightfully his would be snatched away in mere moments. Soon he came upon his lieutenant, who awaited him near the stairwell.
“What news, my lord?” Nefandyr asked, his eyes bright with anticipation of good word.
What news indeed? With all the forces he had labored for years to amass, he could still be opposed, even defeated. There was only one way to seal his victory, and he could never let it slip away from reach. “Nefandyr,” said Felkoth in a deep exhale, “alert the men to wait for my signal. And then,” he trailed off, preparing for violent redemption, “take the city.”
Nefandyr bowed his head obediently. Then he asked, “My lord, what signal?”
“You will know when it is given.”
“Yes, my lord,” Nefandyr replied, making haste for the lower levels.
Then Felkoth, alone in the long, quiet hallway, drew the Dark Blade from its sheath under his robes, and began to speak purposefully, letting each word reverberate off of its cold, unnatural metal. “My beasts,” he called to those that remained in hiding at the end of his lengthy underground passage, which opened up just a mile outside the city gate. “The time has arrived for you to return to Korindelf, to taste the blood of free men once more, to fill your aching bellies and forget the cruel sting of hunger. Come now to the city, as you did centuries ago, and none will be able to deter you.” On hearing their new master’s call, the shriekers emerged by the thousands and hurtled toward Korindelf, licking their fangs in anticipation of the bounty ahead.
Having delivered his orders, Felkoth marched back through the hallway until coming again to the royal chamber’s closed door. He entered, and the king met him with a startled expression that turned to scorn. “Do not come to dissuade me now,” he admonished.
But Felkoth approached him nonetheless, closer now than he’d been before. “You want to know exactly what I’ve done?” he hissed with a growing smile. “Do you want to know how I won your war so easily? I rode alone into the heart of the Dead Plains, where no man of Korindelf has ever set foot. I rode where Mother told me to go before she died, where she said I would find my true father, her very own brother—can you imagine? The king of the South, high in his ancient keep, not quite the formidable adversary that myths and lore have made him over the years, I must say. A greasy fellow, really—unkempt, soiled in his own filth, but so pleased to finally receive one from his own lineage.
“We spoke briefly, as you might guess, exchanging pleasantries, reminiscing about lost relatives. Then I took his sword from him and ran it through his gut, watching him slip and fall in a pool of blood while the word ‘son’ still echoed from wall to wall. After that, I doused him and the rest of his tower with the casks of siege oil he kept in such ample supply, and burned it all to the ground.”
The king tried to make for the door, but Felkoth stepped directly in front of him. “I know you met the shriekers in battle when you were young, insulated by your many swordsmen who took the brunt of their assault. But oh, if you could hear their cries all around you, rising for miles upon miles in every direction. You speak of horrors the world has faced—the world does not know horror, Father. Not