Murtagh

“Then again,” said Murtagh, savoring the reversal, “there’s nothing in your charm to stop me from using magic on something else. Like this fork, for example.” He pressed the tines deeper into Sarros’s flesh. “Do you really think I need a sword to defeat you, you tumorous sack of filth?”

Sarros hissed. Then he shoved Essie into Murtagh’s lap and sprang backward, knocking his chair over.

Murtagh jumped to his feet, and Essie fell to the floor. She scrambled away on all fours beneath the tables.

The six fur-clad men drew their blades, and the great room became a sea of thrashing bodies as the fishermen, laborers, and other guests rushed to escape through the front door. The lute player stumbled and fell, and there were shouts and crashes and breaking mugs.

Murtagh threw off his cloak so he could move freely. He risked a glance at the floor, looking for Sarros’s knife. It was nowhere to be seen. A snarl curled his lips. He wished he had Zar’roc or even a camp knife to defend himself. But no, he’d been too confident, too clever. All he had was the fork.

The cutthroats tried to box him in by the fireplace, but he was having none of that. He slipped between the tables, circling to get a good angle.

Sarros had retreated to a corner and was shouting, “Slice him crosswise! Kill him! Cut open his belly and spill his guts.”

I’ll deal with you directly, Murtagh thought.

By the back of the great room, the girl reached her mother. The woman pulled Essie behind her skirts and grabbed a chair, which she held in front of them as a shield.

The nearest ruffian charged Murtagh, swinging his blade. Clumsy fool. Murtagh parried with the fork and then stepped inside the man’s guard and buried the fork in the man’s chest.

The tines punctured bone and muscle as well as Murtagh could have wanted. The man convulsed against him and collapsed with a wet, blood-choked gasp as his heart gave out.

A tidal surge of fearful rage emanated from Thorn, and Murtagh felt the dragon’s sudden resolve to join him. STAY! he bellowed in his mind before armoring his thoughts against possible intrusion. Thorn held, but barely.

Three more of Sarros’s hired swords moved in. All three jabbed and slashed with their blades, not waiting for the others to take their turn.

Murtagh grabbed a chair and, one-handed, smashed it over the man to his left. At the same time, he used the fork to deflect the attacks from the other two brutes. He matched each of their blows, fencing with effortless ease as they tried to break his guard. None of them were well trained; he could tell that much.

The men had the advantage of reach with their swords, but Murtagh sidestepped their blades and slipped into striking range. Faster than the eye could see, he stabbed with the fork: one, two, three, four hard impacts that dropped the men to the floor, where they lay silent or groaning.

His blood ran hot, and a slick of sweat coated his forehead, and crimson crept in around the edges of his vision. But his breathing remained measured. He was still in control, even as the thrill of violent triumph coursed through him.

Across the room, Sigling pulled himself up the bar into a standing position. He had regained the truncheon, not that Murtagh thought the leather-wrapped stick would do much good against the ruffians’ swords.

The innkeep’s wife said, “Essie, Olfa is in the kitchen. I want you to go—”

Before she could finish, one of Sarros’s guards ran up to them. In his off hand, he held a mace, which he swung at the chair the woman held.

The impact knocked the chair out of her hands, breaking it.

The girl screamed as the fur-clad man drew back the sword in his other hand—

Murtagh knew he couldn’t cross the great room in time to save them. So he gambled on fate’s goodwill and threw the fork—

Thud.

The fork embedded itself in the back of the man’s skull. He collapsed, boneless as a sack of flour.

Relief washed through Murtagh, but only for a second. Sarros and his last remaining companion attempted to flank him. Murtagh kicked a table into the swordsman’s stomach and, when he stumbled, jumped on him and knocked his head against the floor.

Sarros cursed and fled toward the door. As he turned, he threw a handful of glittering crystals at Murtagh.

“Sving!” cried Murtagh.

The crystals swerved in midair and flew into the flames of the fire. A series of loud pops! sounded, and a fountain of crimson embers sprayed the stone hearth.

Before Sarros could reach the door, Murtagh overtook him. He grabbed the back of Sarros’s jerkin and—with a grunt and heave—lifted Sarros off the floor and overhead and then slammed him back down onto the wooden boards.

Sarros’s left elbow bent at an unnatural angle. The man bellowed with pain.

“Essie,” said the innkeep’s wife. “Stay behind me.”

Murtagh planted a foot on Sarros’s chest and, with a growl, said, “Now then, you bastard. Where did you find that stone?”