Murtagh

“That is one to me, Kingkiller!” Bachel cried without looking at him. Behind her, the trampled warrior lay groaning on the ground, his broken chest heaving. The man’s hog was on its side a few steps away, a wide wound in its breast, and it kicked and shuddered as it bled out.

Then a thousand more squeals seemed to sound: a tormented assault upon their ears as first dozens and then hundreds of wild pigs stormed out of the mass of overgrown mushrooms in front of Bachel and her warriors. Beyond, Murtagh heard Thorn approaching, the dragon making no attempt to conceal his heavy tread.

Distracted, Murtagh peered between the trunks of the mushroom trees in an effort to better see. He glimpsed Bachel setting her spear again, and the warriors closing in to protect her flanks.

Another grunting squeal sounded, startling in its nearness.

Murtagh dropped to one knee as a bristling shadow charged toward him through the fungal forest. Tusks flashed white and sharp in the dim light, and a reddened mouth gaped, and small eyes rolled, black and beady. The boar uttered a coughing bark that Murtagh had heard in more than a few nightmares, and then it was upon him.

The boar slammed into him with shocking force. The animal was denser than any human and many times stronger. Murtagh felt his spear sink into the beast’s deep chest, and likewise, he felt the vibration along the haft as the iron blade struck a rib and snapped in two.

The boar squealed and twisted sideways as it tumbled into Murtagh. They both fell to the blackened ground in a tangle of arms and kicking legs.

Sharp, hard blows struck Murtagh along the ribs and the back of his head, and though his wards flared to life, the blows still hurt.

He yelled and tried to rise, but the boar was lying athwart him, kicking and thrashing, and Murtagh couldn’t find a good angle to push himself upright.

Then more boars rushed past—a torrent of frightened, blood-maddened beasts—and their weight drove him into the slippery, slimy mire of the crushed mushrooms. A thick, rotting stench clogged his nostrils, making it impossible to breathe. Dozens of sharp hooves dug into his back, deadly as any dagger, and his wards drew even more of his strength.

The squealing and grunting were deafening. A crimson tunnel closed in around his vision, darkening the world.

Murtagh groped for Zar’roc. His fingers found the pommel, but he didn’t have room to draw the sword while lying on his belly.

A word from the ancient language leapt to mind. A single utterance and he could drive the boars away or else kill them entirely. But then he would have failed Bachel’s challenge, and failure was more painful than the blows battering his frame.

He managed a quick, shallow breath. It wasn’t enough.

Blast it. He was running out of time. If—

He cried out in pain as a boar stomped on his right elbow. His wards kept the joint from breaking, but the pressure pushed his arm into the soft soil, and the angle caused something in his elbow to stretch or snap.

Then a black hoof came down along the side of his head, scraping his skull, and the impact whipped his neck to the side.

Stars filled his vision, and the world grew dark and hazy, and all sound faded into the distance, dimly heard and badly apprehended.

CHAPTER VIII Mother’s Mercy

A black sun rimmed by black flame hung against a darkling sky. The stars were faded, guttering; the air cold and dry, and a bitter wind blew from the north.

The world was dead. All the ground was cracked and charred as by Nal Gorgoth. Bare trees stood on the flanks of slumped mountains, the sharpness of their peaks defeated by the passage of uncounted eons. No birds or beasts were to be seen; if he wandered to the ends of the land, he knew he would find nothing but bones and ashes.

Existence was a tomb wherein the sins of the past lay interred.

But no…not entirely.