Murtagh

He left the dagger where it was and snared the end of the cultist’s spear as the man fell. Holding it one-handed, he waved it at the other cultists while retreating. That bought him time to put away the vial, and then he had both hands on the haft of the spear. A fierce glee overtook him.

Beside him, Uvek caught a man’s spear and used it to smash the cultist against the brazier in the center of the chamber. Sparks and glowing coals flew like a shower of meteors. Another of the Draumar jabbed Uvek in the upper arm, but the Urgal’s hide was so thick, the cut drew no blood.

For the next minute, Murtagh and Uvek fought side by side. They were fit companions. The Urgal’s size and brute strength—as well as his unexpected speed—allowed him to break the line of Draumar and keep them on the defensive, while Murtagh felled his opponents with practiced ease.

As they fought, Grieve stalked the perimeter of the battle, hefting his iron-shod club. But he continued to hold himself apart, content for the time to let his minions strive unassisted with Murtagh and Uvek.

When just two of the cultists remained, and the glittering mosaic was slick with blood, then and only then did Grieve attack.

His assault came as a surprise. Murtagh was focused on the Draumar in front of him—a stocky, slump-shouldered man with a streak of grey along his brow—and he nearly missed Grieve’s club as it swung toward him.

Murtagh twitched and managed to deflect the devastating blow with his spear. At the same time, he felt the man’s mind driving against his own. And not just his; Uvek snarled and said, “You shall not have my thoughts, shagvrek!”

The addition of Grieve to the fight shifted the advantage back to the cultists, for the witch’s adviser and right-hand man struck with a power Murtagh had not anticipated—he seemed nearly as strong as a Kull—and though ungainly, he was swift on his feet. Fending him off was like trying to fence with a savage animal, fierce and untrammeled.

The five of them maneuvered around the pillars and the brazier in the center of the sanctum, each seeking to land a mortal blow. Murtagh stabbed his spear into the brazier and tossed a clump of coals at one of the remaining acolytes. The man ducked, and Murtagh moved in, only for Grieve to drive him back with swings of his heavy club.

A painful stalemate held as they struggled to and fro. Their blows, parries, and occasional shouts echoed through the space, and a pair of dispossessed crows fluttered about near the crown of the ceiling, screaming at the combatants below.

Then Uvek uttered a growl of frustration, and with one hand, he grasped the lip of the burning-hot brazier and flipped it over. Coals cascaded across the gory floor, and the heavy copper dish landed on the shoulders of a cultist, crushing him. A gong-like tone sounded.

“Desecrators!” cried Grieve.

Murtagh seized the opportunity to lunge forward and took the other acolyte in the throat. As the man sank gurgling and gasping to the floor, Uvek slipped his spear under the overturned brazier and stabbed the man struggling beneath its weight. The man went limp, and the brazier moved no more.

“By Azlagûr, I curse you,” said Grieve, and spat on the floor.

Murtagh snorted. “I’ve been cursed by better than you and lived to see them become food for worms.” He pointed his spear at Grieve. “Come now, dog. Meet your fate.”

Grieve drew himself up, squaring his hunched shoulders, and his eyes rolled back to show white. “Azlagûr, hear the plea of your follower, Grieve the First. Let me defeat these unbelievers, and I shall—”

Uvek did not let him complete the contract. The Urgal shouted, “No!” and rushed forward and struck at Grieve with the haft of his spear, using it as if it were a staff.

The wooden pole snapped in two against Grieve’s robe, seemingly broken by the immovable fabric. But Murtagh knew the truth: a ward. Unsurprising, but unfortunate.

A grim certainty settled over him: Grieve would be no easy opponent.

He tried then to seize the man’s mind, even as Bachel and Grieve had attempted to seize his. But Grieve’s mental defenses were formidable, and in any case, the man gave Murtagh little time to concentrate, for he answered Uvek’s attack with a shower of blows from his club.

Uvek caught one blow against his forearm. The force of the strike would have shattered a man’s arm, but the Urgal merely grunted and fell back while swinging the remnants of his spear to gain himself room to recover.

Murtagh took the lead then, but he met with no more success. He jabbed, and Grieve parried. He feinted…and Grieve nearly caught him upside the head with the club. Every attack Murtagh made, Grieve seemed to perfectly anticipate.