Murtagh

The warriors grabbed the next prisoner—a short, brown-haired woman—and carried her to the altar. Despite the stultifying effects of the Breath, she was clearly terrified. Her nostrils flared, and her lungs rasped like overworked bellows, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her ashen skin.

Even though Murtagh wasn’t touching the diamond, he should have been able to draw the energy from it. Under normal circumstances he could have. He felt sure that if he just tried hard enough…but even in that moment, with his heart pounding and the smell of blood and death filling his nostrils, he could not bring his full strength to bear.

One of the warriors cut open the front of the woman’s tunic. Bachel savored the sight before turning back to Murtagh. “Now, Kingkiller. You know what is to be done. Now, by my word, my will, my command, sacrifice this unbeliever to Azlagûr the Devourer! Do this, and you shall be favored above all others.”

A scrap of black smoke blew into Murtagh’s face as he inhaled, and the smoke choked him and unbalanced his thoughts. The world distorted, and the festival and Nal Gorgoth itself seemed to thin and waver.

His hand trembled around the hilt of the dagger.

For the slightest moment, he imagined accepting. No longer would he and Thorn be outcasts. They would belong to the Draumar, and the Draumar would belong to them, and wherever they went, whatever they did, they would be able to rely upon the Draumar for help, even as the cultists might rely upon them. He would lead the Draumar to victory against the rest of Alagaësia. He knew how. Bachel was not wrong in that. And in victory, he and Thorn might at last be truly safe.

The prospect was enormously tempting.

Yet he could not bring himself to take the first step along that path. The costs were too high. He and Thorn would still be Bachel’s thralls, servants to her grim cause, and there was no certainty they could ever overcome her. Besides, to pursue an absence of danger beyond all other considerations was its own form of madness. And as much as he yearned to belong, the question of to whom mattered. The Draumar, he deemed, were unworthy of his loyalty. He had rejected what Galbatorix offered—and through that rejection won his freedom. Likewise, he now rejected Bachel.

“Kill her, Kingkiller!” Bachel insisted. The leaping flames of the bonfire gilded her hollow cheeks with liquid gold. The chanting of the cultists surged in response to her words, rising to a demented frenzy.

Murtagh lifted the knife. He had to. Bachel’s words left him no choice. But in his mind, he continued to rebel. Time was nearly gone, and yet he still failed to breach the barrier and access the energy in the diamond.

He couldn’t do it alone.

The thought struck him with clarifying force. In an instant, he diverted his mental energies to Thorn—and then to Uvek—and threw himself against the unnatural haze that separated their minds and pierced it through the strength of his will. I need your help! he said.

The knife began to descend.

Thorn blinked, and Uvek snarled, and yet Murtagh felt nothing from them. Despair sank its teeth into him. They had lost, and Bachel had triumphed. If only—

New strength poured into him. Thorn’s and Uvek’s both. Their contribution was limited—neither was able to fully overcome the restrictions of the Breath or the vorgethan—but it was more than he had on his own.

With them backing him, Murtagh again drove his mind into the diamond. It took every scrap of their combined might, but he was able, just barely, to prize open the bottled store of energy.

The torrent of potential rushed into him.

He directed it into the blackstone charm. At the same instant, he mouthed the Urgal word that Uvek had taught him: “Shûkva.” Heal. It felt strange to work magic without the ancient language, but the word served its purpose nonetheless, and the charm triggered.

A sense of lightness passed through Murtagh, and a cloud seemed to lift from his mind as his sight and hearing sharpened and his thoughts grew swift as a high-spirited stallion. It occurred to him that he was lucky his remaining wards hadn’t blocked the effects of the charm.

He stopped the downward motion of his arm. The tip of the black-bladed dagger hung a hair’s breadth from the center of the woman’s chest.

Bachel looked at him, and her angled eyes began to narrow. “Do not hesitate, Kingkiller. Finish the deed!”

Murtagh knew the odds were against him. His wards that protected him from physical harm were exhausted. All he had was the force of his mind and the strength of his body, and Bachel and the entirety of the Draumar were arrayed before him—and they were well protected by amulets and enchantments.

His lips curled. A good fight, then.

The first flash of alarm crossed Bachel’s face, but before she could act—

“Vindr!” Murtagh shouted, and stabbed the dagger toward the witch’s heart.

CHAPTER XXIII Fire and Wind