Murtagh

“No,” said Uvek, and his voice was like grinding rocks. He pointed at Lyreth with one hooked nail. “You stay.” Lyreth froze. There was no chance he could outrun an Urgal, and they all knew it. “Do you want I should kill this hornless stripling for you, Murtagh-man?”

Murtagh was sorely tempted. But he shook his head. “No. Leave him. He’ll make a better prisoner. We’ll take him back to face Nasuada’s interrogators.”

Fear again animated Lyreth’s face, but then he assumed the same haughty, contemptuous expression that Murtagh had learned to hate growing up. “Do you think it’s so easy to make me a prisoner? You never could best me at court, Murtagh.”

“And you could never best me in the arena. Goreth of Teirm could attest to that.”

Somewhere in the village, a building collapsed amid shouts and roars. Murtagh resisted the urge to look. He felt no pain from Thorn; the dragon was safe enough.

Lyreth made a dismissive motion. “You don’t have a sword now, Murtagh son of Morzan, and if you have that pet Urgal of yours catch and bind me, you’re a bigger coward than I thought. I wager you can’t make me bend a knee. I wager upon my life.”

It was a provocation, and Murtagh knew it, but neither could he let the challenge pass unanswered. “It might very well be on your life,” he said darkly. He wiped a line of blood from his throbbing temple. “No one calls me coward without a fair answer.”

Uvek nodded approvingly. “I will watch, Murtagh-man. Is good to fight. Clears the blood, adds honor to your name.”

“And my honor is your honor. Yes.”

The Urgal moved back several paces as Murtagh and Lyreth began to circle each other among the pillars. Lyreth’s unexpected courage puzzled Murtagh; he never would have thought of Lyreth as brave. Cunning, yes. Charming, when need be, yes. Cruel, most certainly. But not the sort of man who would jump at the opportunity to lead a charge in battle.

He must really want to avoid being captured. The thought gave Murtagh pause. If that was Lyreth’s true motivation, then—

He sprang forward. If he was right, delay would be deadly. With two steps, he closed the distance with Lyreth and, before the other man could back away, grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand while striking him in the jaw with a fist.

Lyreth took the blow better than Murtagh expected, and a second later, he felt an answering blow against his left kidney. The pain made Murtagh’s eyes water, and his whole body went rigid, save for his knees, which buckled.

Then Lyreth pushed against him, and they were falling together.

A jarring thud as they collided with the floor. For a minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing as they wrestled across the flagstones. Up close, Lyreth smelled of wine and a cloying, peach-scented perfume that Murtagh found distinctly off-putting.

The other man fought with desperate strength, but desperate or not, he was far weaker than Murtagh, and Murtagh soon gained the advantage. Lyreth seemed to realize his plight, for he resorted to the lowest of tactics and drove his thumbs into Murtagh’s eyes.

Pain caused Murtagh to jerk his head back, and his vision flashed white and red, and sparkling stars exploded at the points where Lyreth’s thumbs contacted.

They separated, and a second later, they were both on their feet, fists raised, hair tousled, teeth bared. Murtagh blinked. The world throbbed with reds and yellows, every line and angle outlined with a glowing halo.

Several quick jabs followed, and then Murtagh grew impatient and rushed Lyreth. He was no longer a youngling, and he’d be thrice cursed before he let Lyreth again use him badly.

He slammed Lyreth into a pillar, and the man’s head cracked against the carved stone.

For an instant, Murtagh thought he’d won. Then a flash of silver by his belt caught his attention: Lyreth fumbling to draw a short-bladed dagger from under the hem of his tunic.

Alarm spiked Murtagh’s pulse. He jumped backward, but too late: a burning line slashed across his ribs as Lyreth lashed out with the weapon.

Murtagh resisted the urge to disengage. Instead, he stepped forward again and trapped Lyreth’s arm between their bodies. He caught the man’s wrist with his hand and bent it inward until the dagger pointed back at Lyreth, and before Lyreth could drop the weapon, he shoved the knife deep into Lyreth’s chest.

Lyreth stiffened and let out a grunt, but he kept struggling against Murtagh, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the wound. Murtagh knew he’d hit the man’s heart. He’d bleed out given enough time, but that could be a minute or more, and Lyreth was fighting with the same stubborn tenacity as a buck that had been struck in the chest by an arrow and refused to fall.