Murtagh

Beneath the mask, Bachel’s mouth twisted with amusement. “Not mine, Kingkiller. Mites and fleas of Azlagûr are they. Useful tools, nothing more.”

He nodded in a pretense of understanding. The twelve acolytes couched their staffs toward him as he stopped some ten paces in front of Bachel. If he could somehow maneuver behind them, he could drive Bachel toward the hole in the floor, and it would limit her movement….

A column of thick black smoke jetted up through the hole, as loud and fast as a giant waterfall, only in ascent. Heat followed, so intense that Murtagh fell back a step, and the stench of brimstone was overwhelming.

Bachel seemed unaffected. She extended Niernen and let the tip of the lance enter the flow of smoke. The glow from the blade illuminated the dense haze from within, giving it an unearthly hue.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the torrent ceased, and what remained continued upward, lifted by the heated currents of air. It vanished into the shadows above, but Murtagh knew that, in a few minutes, it would arrive at the surface and thence would seep through the ground and into the polluted air around Nal Gorgoth.

“What is this place, witch?”

Bachel drew herself up, eyes bright with fury, and her mask lent her voice terrifying power. “You will address me by my rightful title, desecrator! This place is Oth Orum, the hidden heart of the world, the very center of all being, and your presence is an affront to Azlagûr Himself. No outlander has set foot here, not in all the thousands of years the Draumar have guarded it. To come here unconsecrated is to invite death, and death you shall have unless you realize your error and kneel before me.”

“I shall not kneel. Not to you. Not to Azlagûr. Not to anyone.”

Bachel’s fury increased, but she mastered herself and, in a cold tone, said, “Why, Kingkiller? I have offered you everything, and still you scorn me.”

“No, you have taken, not offered.” Murtagh did not blink as he met her gaze. “I am my own man. By my will, I make my way. I will let no one steal that from me, least of all you, witch. Surrender now, or I swear the worms will feed on you this very day.”

“Desecrator!” she declared. “Defiler! You will rue those—”

The ground shook beneath them, and a thunderous rumble echoed through the caves and tunnels. Flakes of stone fell from above, and billows of grey dust clouded the chamber.

Murtagh dropped into a half crouch, alarmed. Was this Bachel’s magic again?

But no, the witch and her minions staggered, as if surprised, and then Bachel laughed, low, throaty, delighted. “Do you feel that, Kingkiller?! Do you? That is Azlagûr come to purge the unbelievers! He shall sweep aside the unworthy, like maggots before the flame! Submit!”

Worry gnawed at Murtagh’s confidence. He still did not fully understand the forces he was dealing with; whatever lay at the bottom of the hole, it was concerning.

Raising Ithring, he pointed at Bachel, even as she had pointed at him with Niernen. “Let Alín go,” he said, and his voice rang loudly. “She has no part in our quarrel.”

“Oh, but she does,” said Bachel. “She is my vassal, and you have turned her against me, and against Azlagûr Himself. She shall pay for her sins, Rider. She shall pay most dearly. Her blood will be a welcome sacrifice to our dread god.”

“Liar!” shouted Alín. “Hypocrite! You broke our creed! You went against everything you told us was sacred!” She spat on the floor in Bachel’s direction. “You are the defiler! You are the desecrator!”

Bachel turned, the slightest smile upon her distorted features. “Foolish girl. There are deeper truths than you know. Everything I have done has been in service of Azlagûr’s will. You dare question me? She whom He has chosen as His Speaker?”

Hair flew wild about Alín’s face as she shook her head. “How can you say that? All my life, we worshipped the dragons, as you taught us. You said—”

“The dragons?” said Bachel, her voice so loud that Alín quailed into submission. The witch laughed, and there was nothing pleasant in the sound. “You wish to understand that which is above your station, wretch, but I will indulge you this once. Azlagûr has no regard for the little worms. They may serve Him or not, and if not, the calamity of His arrival shall sweep them aside. That is as He desires. That is as it shall be. The little worms are not gods. They are noisome spawn, weak, blind, and benighted.”

The twelve staff-wielding Draumar seemed unsurprised. Murtagh wondered if they were Bachel’s inner circle, privy to information kept from the rest of the cult.

“No,” said Alín in a small voice. She was shaking. “That cannot be. Why w—”

Bachel rapped Niernen against the stone. “Because! The little worms are aspects of Azlagûr, but they are not Azlagûr Himself. It is the Great Devourer we worship above all else.” The witch shook her head, as if disgusted, and held out her off hand toward the nearest of the Draumar. “Give me now your knife.”