Murtagh

Murtagh’s heart began to hammer as the witch took his hand and led him to the altar. The cultists and prisoners parted before them; the sight reminded him of the weddings that had taken place at court, with Galbatorix presiding, a dark and foreboding figure waiting at the head of the great presence chamber to deliver his royal benediction.

Across the courtyard, Thorn stirred in his shackles, a futile protest of movement. Without looking at him, Bachel said, “Stay,” and he subsided, but his eyes sparked with restrained fire.

No, thought Murtagh when he saw the stained surface of the altar. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t be forced to do this. He wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t—

Bachel clapped her hands, and her warriors dragged to her the first of the remaining prisoners. The man was a ruddy-faced commoner garbed in a rough, homespun smock. He had a short, untrimmed beard that made his chin and upper lip look as if they had been rubbed with dirt. His jaw was set, and his brow furrowed, but he was obviously frightened, and the Breath of Azlagûr still held him in its power and seemed to have left him with no will to fight or flee.

“Hold him down and bare his breast,” said Bachel, her voice loud and clear.

The warriors hauled the prisoner onto the altar and pinned him down. One of them used a knife to cut open the smock to expose the man’s chest, and the man let out a small groan.

Murtagh gripped the edge of his cloak with his right hand and began to pull the fabric up with his fingers, feeling for the diamond hidden within the hem.

The cultists started to chant, and the combined power of their voices was like a great drum beating through the air and ground. The sound was seductive, transfixing, overwhelming; it made Murtagh want to join the rhythmic recitation, to lose himself in the cry of the crowd and to become one with the group.

Moving in time with the chant, Bachel drew the black-bladed dagger from the sheath on her girdle and raised the weapon above her head. From where Murtagh stood, the knife was outlined against the sinking disk of the sun, as sharp as a serpent’s poisonous tooth.

His finger touched the diamond in the hem.

Bachel’s dagger descended, fast as a falling arrow.

The prisoner let out a low grunt as the blade pierced his heart, and his whole body went rigid. He thrashed, but the warriors held him in place.

Blood sprayed skyward as Bachel withdrew the dagger. Then she moved lower, and as the man gurgled and gasped his last breath, she began to cut open his belly.

Murtagh watched. He had no choice. Gore in and of itself did not bother him. He had butchered his share of animals while hunting, and he had seen—and carried out—more than his share of bloody deeds on the battlefield. But to watch a man killed so coldly, without a chance to defend himself, was horrific. It gave him visions of Goreth of Teirm lying before him in the packed-sand arena….

The diamond was hard between his fingers as he seized it with crushing strength through the hem.

He drove his mind into the gem, trying once more to free the energy contained within. The swirling store of power trembled beneath his mental grasp, an electric whirlpool that sent tiny shocks through his consciousness. He strained with all his might, but the barrier in his mind continued to hold.

Bachel spread out the prisoner’s bloody intestines across the ashen altar, and she made a show of studying them. Then she raised her stained hands and cried, “Azlagûr has blessed us!” The cultists roared with approval. “The time of the Draumar is at hand! Hark! I see our people stepping forth from the shadows and marching across the land! I see the sons and daughters of Azlagûr’s betrayers brought to heel! I see the Dragon Thorn and the Rider Murtagh flying at our fore! Yea, and even shall they cast down the false hero Eragon, and by their claw and tooth and blade shall they usher in the end of this age. All shall bow before Azlagûr’s might, and His reign shall take hold, and so shall we endure, yea even unto the end of time. As it is dreamt, so it shall be!”

“As it is dreamt, so it shall be!” the villagers chanted.

Then Bachel stepped back from the altar and gestured at the corpse of the man. “Take him to the deep and deposit his body in the Well of Dreams, that Azlagûr may know we have served Him.”

Two of the warriors dragged the corpse away, leaving black streaks across the altar.

With a wicked smile, Bachel advanced on Murtagh. He froze, and his heart jumped as she took his right hand in hers. She lifted his hand, and the diamond slipped from between his fingers, and the cloak fell straight. Her smile deepened as she pressed her black-bladed dagger into his palm and wrapped his fingers about the hilt. The blood on her skin stained his own.

“Now it is your turn to prove yourself a faithful servant to Azlagûr the Devourer,” she said, and a tone of unhealthy delight colored her voice. “Bring another!”