Murtagh

Dread certainty congealed within Murtagh. The witch knew he was coming, and she was not alone. They would be ready for him. Ideally, he would take Bachel prisoner, that he might finally have his answers—most specifically about the activities of the Draumar in Nasuada’s realm—but Murtagh suspected the witch would sooner die than submit. That was acceptable too. Bachel was so dangerous, keeping her captive would be like trying to restrain a rabid beast with his bare hands. Nor would killing her be much easier, if even he could.

For a moment, doubt assailed him. We could still leave. There was nothing to stop him and Thorn from flying away. They could fetch reinforcements, and with Eragon or Arya by their side, the witch would hardly stand a chance. But there was no guarantee Bachel or the Draumar would hold in Nal Gorgoth while they were gone.

And in any case, he couldn’t abandon Alín. He’d made her a promise.

At least Bachel won’t shake the mountains while she’s under them, he thought, and felt grateful for the smallest of mercies.

Shield in one hand, sword in the other, he trotted out of the temple sanctum and toward the back of the building. There, he found the door that opened upon the cropped sward abutting the western side of the temple. Thick plumes of black smoke rose from vents in the ground.

A terrific crash caused him to flinch and turn. One side of the Tower of Flint had just collapsed inward, reducing the structure to a mound of rubble.

Past the tower, flames lit Nal Gorgoth. Half the buildings had their roofs torn off. Loose stones lined the streets, and bodies too.

Thorn swooped past, scales shining, threads of hot blood trailing from his wings.

Murtagh saluted, and the dragon roared in return. Then Murtagh started across the sward, heading toward the grove of pinetrees beyond. I’m going to find Bachel, he said.

Grim concern was Thorn’s first response. It is too dangerous.

I know, but I must.

Do not go alone. Take Uvek with you.

He has duties elsewhere, and I need you to keep the Draumar occupied out here.

Across the village, Thorn roared again, this time with frustration. You won’t ask me because you know I’m too afraid.

Murtagh stopped for a moment, his own emotions a conflicting welter. I didn’t want to trouble you. That is all. You’re as brave a being as any I know. Then, more gently: You probably won’t even fit in the tunnels down there.

You don’t know that.

Then come if you want! I’m not trying to stop you.

An uncomfortable silence followed, and Murtagh could feel Thorn’s mind churning with a mix of shame and anger.

Finally, Murtagh said, I have to go. Guard yourself well.

…And you the same. Then a snarl echoed across the tumbled rooftops. Make the witch sorry she ever thought to chain us.

“I’ll try,” Murtagh muttered, starting forward again.

A pair of sword-wielding Draumar sprinted toward him from the grove. He cut them down, one after the other, with decisive swings of Zar’roc. The elven-forged blade shattered the sword of the second cultist into silver shards.

Murtagh let out a shout as he hurried forward. It was more a battle cry than anything: a release of the furious energy coursing through him. He knew the feeling well; it was an old companion. Some men fought while in the grip of an icy calm, and he appreciated the value of that, but calm held no appeal for him at this moment. He had been bound, and now he was released, and every bottled bit of rage boiled out of him, as steam from a heated rock.

More Draumar attacked as he entered the grove. Five of them, armed with spears and swords and a single bow. Murtagh caught an arrow on his shield, and then he was among the cultists, beating and cutting and stabbing with deadly intent.

Dangerous as it was, Murtagh found the fight exhilarating, and he laughed at the fear of the men. Good. It was only right that they quailed before him.

The skirmish did not last even a minute. As the last body fell to the ground, he was already moving past, heart hammering, lungs heaving. His lips were drawn back to bare his teeth in a bloody grin, and he felt a sense of power gathered about himself, like an invisible cloak.