Murtagh

Murtagh’s wards protected him from the creature’s attack, but the impact caused him to stumble backward into the edge of the door. He dropped to one knee.

Despite his wards, instinct led him to keep his eyes screwed shut. He felt upward until his hands closed upon warm fur, and then he pulled the kicking, clawing, spitting creature off his neck.

Only then did he get a good look at it.

Silna!

The youngling was a mosaic-coated cat with large green eyes narrowed in anger, tufted ears pressed flat, tail puffed out, and heavy paws that scraped at the air. The werecat was close in size to a housecat, and her head had the distinctive, overly large appearance of a kitten’s.

“Shh, shh,” Murtagh tried to say in a calming manner, but the werecat kept twisting and biting in a desperate attempt to break free.

Finally, he said, “Silna! Eka fricai. Eka fricai.” I am a friend.

The werecat’s clawing ceased, and she stared at him with a flat, hostile gaze.

He hesitated and then carefully placed her on the floor and let go.

The ridge of fur along Silna’s spine remained raised. But she didn’t run. She seemed, Murtagh was relieved to see, unharmed, though she looked painfully thin.

He held out his hands, palms raised. “Can you understand me? Carabel sent me to find you.”

Silna’s lips retracted to bare her sharp white teeth.

“I’m a friend,” Murtagh insisted. He reached out with his thoughts toward the werecat’s mind. The instant he touched her consciousness, she hissed, and he felt nothing but fear on her part.

He recoiled from her mind. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Do you understand?”

The werecat’s slitted eyes darted between him and the open door, and he realized he was still blocking the way. He didn’t move. “I can help you out of here, but you have to trust me.” He held out one hand toward her, same as he would with a skittish horse.

Silna let out a small hiss, but she didn’t retreat.

It’s a start. “Can you change forms?” he asked. “Then we could talk. If you can talk…” Murtagh wondered at what age werecats gained the ability to shift their shape. Were they born with it?

He edged to one side of the doorway, opening a space for Silna to pass through. “Come on,” he said in a coaxing tone. “Come with me.”

The werecat’s eyes narrowed again, and then she darted forward and past him before he could react.

“Blast it!” Murtagh scrambled to his feet as Silna streaked toward the far end of the arcane garden.

Just before she reached the doorway to the alchemy workshop, a voice sounded ahead of them. Esvar’s voice: “—an’ I swore I heard somethin’, so I came t’ get you directly. Look!”

Silna slid to a stop and darted back the way she’d come.

Within the workshop, Murtagh saw Esvar, three other guards, and the nearly white-haired magician of Du Vrangr Gata. Esvar gaped at Silna. Whether from surprise that she had escaped or at seeing a werecat, Murtagh didn’t know.

Nor did he wait to find out.

He opened his mouth to speak the Word and break any spells protecting the men or directed at him or Silna. But before he could utter a sound, the men spotted him, and a blade of thought stabbed into his mind—the magician attacking the very essence of his self.

Stay! Murtagh flung the word toward Silna’s consciousness, and then turtled in on himself, armoring his mind with blinkered focus: “You shall not have me. You shall not have me.” He dared not let the magician see his thoughts, and because of that, he dared not loosen his defenses enough to speak the Word and work magic of his own. Not until he gained control of his enemy’s mind.

The werecat kitten cowered behind his back foot and hissed.

The three guards in the front charged: one in front, two behind.

Murtagh swept his cloak across their field of vision, causing them to flinch, and used the momentary cover to draw his arming sword.

The distraction allowed him to strike first. He jabbed the lead man in his right hip and—

—the tip of the blade skated off an invisible barrier a finger’s width from the guard’s skin.

Blast it!

The guard slashed at Murtagh with his own weapon, causing Murtagh to duck. Swordplay alone wasn’t going to win the day. He had to figure out a way around the guard’s wards.

His misadventure with Muckmaw leaped to mind.

Fine. Bracing himself, Murtagh slammed his shoulder into the guard’s chest and knocked him across the room. The guard’s wards kept him from suffering scratches or worse as he crashed into a pair of bushes, but they did nothing to keep his head from whipping to the side and striking the crystal case that contained the blue-black egg, dazing the poor man.

Cracks spiderwebbed the case.

The next soldier shouted and stabbed a spear toward Murtagh’s face. He let his own wards deflect the blow as he darted forward and, still holding the sword, clapped his hands against the sides of the guard’s helmet. The man cried out, dropped his spear, and collapsed.

As Murtagh had suspected. No wards against sound.