Murtagh

This is taking too long. The thought came to Murtagh with cold clarity. Alín needed rescuing. More importantly, Bachel was still on the loose, which meant Thorn was in danger, even if some of the dragon’s wards remained. The contest with Lyreth was an unnecessary distraction, and a dangerous one at that.

All anger left him then, and he stepped back and pulled the dagger free of Lyreth’s chest. A spray of crimson blood hit him, and the color drained from Lyreth’s face. The man flailed and scrambled after Murtagh, only to collapse into his arms.

Keeping a firm grip on the dagger, Murtagh lowered Lyreth to the ground. Already he could see the light fading from Lyreth’s eyes. His first instinct was to let the man die. But he didn’t want to lose all that Lyreth knew.

“Waíse heill,” he said, and placed his left palm against the wound in the man’s chest. It was a risky spell; he could be attempting to heal something that was beyond his strength or ability, but it was all he had time for.

The spell had no effect.

Lyreth chuckled. He sounded genuinely amused. Blood stained the corners of his mouth. “I’m charmed, remember? Your spells…won’t…work.”

Murtagh ripped open the front of Lyreth’s tunic, convinced he would see one of Bachel’s bird-skull amulets hanging around Lyreth’s neck. But all he found was pale skin and the red-lipped line that was the wound into Lyreth’s heart.

“What did you do?” he said, angry.

Lyreth chuckled again, more weakly this time. “Bound wards to…me…. No need for…amulet.” His gaze wandered for a moment, and then he rallied and looked at Murtagh with undisguised spite. “You always were a…bastard.”

And then he went limp, and his last breath left his body.

Murtagh stood and looked down at the corpse. “No,” he finally said. “Eragon’s the bastard. Not me.”

“A good kill, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek.

Murtagh grunted. He motioned to the Urgal. “We’d better hurry.”

CHAPTER XXIV Grieve

As Murtagh ran with Uvek toward the temple’s inner sanctum, he quickly cast a basic ward against physical damage, and he was just beginning to formulate a ward that could protect him, or others, against the Breath when they arrived in the echoing room.

There, waiting for them in the presence chamber, was Grieve and seven acolytes in their armor of leather scales. Grieve carried his iron-shod club; the acolytes carried spears and wooden roundshields.

Neither Bachel nor Alín was to be seen.

Uvek stomped his feet and bellowed, and the sound of his war cry echoed a dozen times off the high ceiling.

“Where is Bachel?” said Murtagh, raising his voice over the echoes. He regripped Lyreth’s dagger. It was the only physical weapon he had.

“That is none of your concern, Outlander,” said Grieve in his harsh tone.

“I disagree. Tell me, and tell me where Alín is.”

Grieve smiled grimly. “With the Speaker. She shall see to the little traitor. Now surrender, Outlander, or you shall surely die.”

“You know I’ll never surrender.” Murtagh was already preparing for the mental assault he was convinced would follow.

Grieve snorted. “Of course, but formalities must be observed. I’m glad for the chance to be rid of you, Rider. And you as well, Urgal.”

Uvek let out a low growl. “You owe me blood, shagvrek, for death of Kiskû.”

A disdainful sneer crossed Grieve’s face. “Was that your bird? Annoying thing. Uvek Windtalker, the greatest shaman of his people, and yet you chose to sit atop a mountain and talk to a bird for years on end. What a waste.”

Rage darkened Uvek’s face, and he lowered his head so that, for a moment, Murtagh thought he was going to charge. “You are slave to dream, shagvrek. Is wrong-think to worship Bachel or Azlagûr. You crawl before them, happy for attention. Like dog.”

Grieve snarled, his expression hateful. “I am no slave, Urgralgra.” He spat out the word as if it were invective. “I serve those who accepted me.”

Uvek spread his broad arms. “Then let me give embrace. See how long you can stand welcome. Hrr-hrr-hrr.”

Grieve lifted his club and pointed it at Murtagh and Uvek. “Kill the unbelievers.” And he drew forth a crystal vial and threw it at the mosaic floor.

Murtagh had been expecting exactly that. Even as the vial flew through the air, he cried, “Drahtr!”

The vial swooped back up, just missing the floor, and gently arced into Murtagh’s left hand. Grieve’s face contorted with rage, and he bellowed as the seven acolytes charged Murtagh and Uvek.

Murtagh didn’t have time to slip the vial into the pouch on his belt before the first cultist was upon him. He sidestepped a jab of the man’s spear, sprang forward, and drove Lyreth’s dagger through the man’s temple.

Good thing they’re not wearing helmets.