Murtagh

Uvek’s breath hissed between his teeth, and he growled as if meaning to attack. But he stepped back and clapped a hand over the cauterized wound.

What remained of Grieve collapsed to the floor.

Darkness compressed around them as Murtagh ended his spell, extinguishing Zar’roc.

“Gzja!” said Uvek, and spat on Grieve’s body. “You no more throw rocks at birds. Now Kiskû rest easy.”

Murtagh gestured toward Uvek’s shoulder. “Let me see. I can help.”

Uvek grunted and shook his head. “Is not bad, Murtagh-man. An Urgralgra wears his hurts with pride. I will live.”

“Are you sure?”

The Urgal seemed offended that Murtagh would question his word. “Sure, sure. This small hurt. I had much worse from bear. I will live.”

“Good.”

With the toes of his bare foot, Uvek nudged the fallen tip of his horn. “Not good to lose horn, but horn grow back.”

Murtagh started back for the chest behind the dais. “I suppose you’ll just have to live in a cave until you’re presentable again.”

“What means presentable, Murtagh-man?”

“Fit to look at.” He was relieved to find his armor neatly stored inside the chest. And with it, the ancient language compendium, which was more valuable to him than any gold or gems.

The Urgal laughed as Murtagh pulled on his corselet of mail. “I no longer look for mate to live with, Murtagh-man. Broken horn will not be big problem.”

Moving with haste born of need, Murtagh donned his arming cap and helm, and then strapped on his greaves and vambraces. He decided against the breastplate; mobility was more important than protection from war hammers or the like. For that he had his ward. He belted on Zar’roc’s sheath and tucked the ancient language compendium into the pouch where he had stored the vial of Azlagûr’s Breath.

Then he scouted across the mosaic floor until he found one of the acolyte’s shields. Taking the shield, he returned to Uvek where he stood beside Grieve’s remains. “What is shagvrek?” Murtagh asked.

“Hard to say. Is hornless from before.”

“Before what?”

“Before hornless fill land. Before elves have pointed ears. Before dwarves were short. Before dragons had wings. Before that.”

Startled, Murtagh peered at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Uvek nodded. “Shagvrek old. Live in caves. Burn meat and eat dead.”

Before Murtagh could ask more questions, dull thuds sounded outside the temple, and a thin veil of dust sifted from the ceiling. Opening his mind once again, he could feel Thorn’s delighted, bloodthirsty rage as he tore apart the buildings in Nal Gorgoth. It was a shame, Murtagh thought, to lose such ancient structures (their carvings were well worth study), but he wasn’t about to let that stop him or Thorn from flattening the place. Nal Gorgoth and those who lived there were an abomination Murtagh was determined to see cleansed from the face of the earth.

He felt some pain from Thorn—arrows through his wings—but otherwise the dragon seemed unharmed.

Do you need help? he asked.

Only if you wish.

Uvek gave a restless glance toward the direction of the sounds. “Murtagh-man, there are other Urgralgra in Nal Gorgoth. Some prisoners. Some Draumar. Maybe Draumar will not listen to me, but I have duty to try.”

“Go. If you need aid in battle, call for Thorn.”

Uvek grunted and started to leave. Then he strode back to Murtagh and bent down and gently bumped foreheads with him. “Is good to have you as qazhqargla, Murtagh-man.”

An unexpected upswelling of camaraderie filled Murtagh. “And you as well, Uvek Windtalker.”

“Hrmm.”

Then the Urgal trotted away, his footsteps surprisingly quiet for his bulk, and Murtagh stood alone among the scattered corpses.

He ignored them. Closing his eyes, he sent his mind ranging through the village as he searched for Bachel, determined to find the witch and, once and for all, bring her to account. The thought of breaking her power held dark appeal. As she had done to him, he would do to her. She had brought him low, and he wanted revenge.

That, and he wanted to help Alín. No, needed.

Throughout Nal Gorgoth, he felt a confused chorus of pain and terror as the cultists fled before Thorn or else attempted, in vain, to halt the dragon’s rampage. But nowhere among the panicked minds of the Draumar did he detect the familiar shape of Bachel’s thoughts.

He delved deeper. Extending his consciousness into the depths, he searched under the buildings, down among the rot of tunnels that corrupted the roots of the mountains.

There. A cluster of sparks, as errant fireflies trapped far below the surface. He reached toward the brightest one, and the spark flared in response, and then pulled inward and shrank as Bachel shielded her thoughts from his.