Murtagh

The third guard poked at Murtagh with a billed pike. He dodged and smashed the pommel of his sword against the crest of the man’s helm. The blow staggered the guard, and Murtagh followed up with another clap on either side of the man’s head, which sent him reeling into a bed of lilies.

The whole while, Murtagh could feel the magician trying to dig into his mind. The man’s neck was corded with strain, his lips pressed white against his bared teeth, and his hands worked feverishly within the sleeves of his robe.

Murtagh started for him, but Esvar stepped in front of the magician and raised his sword.

“Move aside,” said Murtagh between clenched teeth.

Esvar held his ground. His face was red with anger, but he also had a look of hurt innocence that Murtagh could hardly bear to see. “You swore,” said Esvar. “You swore. I was there. An’ you betrayed us!”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Murtagh. “Stand down.” A bumblebee flew past his face. Its body was iridescent blue.

Esvar shook his head, his expression one of fixed determination, and took a half step forward. “Never! You attacked th’ guard. I’ll die afore I let you pass. Traitor.”

Murtagh had been called worse. He spared a glance for the men lying groaning on the floor; they wouldn’t be a problem. Silna still crouched low to the ground behind him, safe for the moment.

“Kill him,” said the magician, his voice tight with strain.

“You’re no match for me,” said Murtagh. He sounded calmer than he felt.

Esvar’s upper lip curled. “Don’t matter. It’s my duty.” And he lunged, extending his arm in a long stab aimed at Murtagh’s throat.

Murtagh parried, closed the distance between them, and smashed the pommel of his sword against Esvar’s helmet. The younger man dropped to one knee, and Murtagh was about to step past when Esvar drove his shoulders into Murtagh’s knees.

His knees locked out and lightning shocks of pain radiated from the joints. Murtagh stumbled back and watched with some amazement as Esvar got to his feet and shook his head. A thread of blood trickled from his left ear.

“My ma always said I had a thick head,” said Esvar, grim. He lifted his sword again. “Y’ can batter me deaf, Task, but you’ll have t’ kill me afore you get by.”

Murtagh’s frustration boiled over into anger, and he launched several quick jabs at Esvar’s shoulders and hips, hoping that if one of them went through, the wound wouldn’t prove fatal or crippling. But none of them did. Esvar’s wards continued to protect him. The impact of blade against spell sent sparks flying from Murtagh’s sword, and he saw the tip was bent and broken.

He wished Zar’roc was in his hand. Even if the enchanted blade couldn’t cut through Esvar’s wards, the brightsteel wouldn’t break.

Esvar fell back before the blows. He rallied and replied with another strike, attempting to cut Murtagh across the neck and waist.

“Why. Won’t. You. Give. Up!” shouted Murtagh, his fury swelling like a storm. He rained down a series of heavy cuts onto Esvar, breaking his guard and driving the young man to his knees. There was no finesse to Murtagh’s attack, no art, no grace or intelligence as Tornac had taught him, just sheer brute strength. And yet Esvar’s wards continued to hold. Murtagh’s sword glanced off his clothes and skin as if deflected by oiled ice.

Murtagh could see that the spells were tiring Esvar, but no faster than the blows tired Murtagh.

Esvar lashed out with a blind swing toward Murtagh’s legs. Murtagh let the blow bounce off his thigh and hammered at the guard’s shoulder with every fiber of his being, as if he were trying to split the earth itself.

Ting!

His sword shattered, and half of it flew spinning across the room to embed itself in a length of dragon bone.

Murtagh stabbed with the needle-tipped shard that remained attached to the crossguard and—

—the jagged piece of metal sank into Esvar’s upper chest, between his neck and shoulder, near his collarbone.

The guard’s eyes went wide, and he fell onto his backside, stunned. He put a hand to his chest, and his mouth worked several times, but no sound came out.

In an instant, Murtagh’s rage shifted to regret, sorrow, and loathing for what he had done. The distraction was enough for the magician to delve deeper into his mind, gripping and tearing in an attempt to control Murtagh’s thoughts.

“Oh no you don’t!” he growled, finally giving the spellcaster his undivided attention. He attacked the consciousness of the robed man, holding nothing back, only seeking to overwhelm, crush, and suppress.

The spellcaster’s mental defenses crumbled before the onslaught, and Murtagh received a brief flash of imagery from the man—his name was Arven, and he was deeply frightened about, about…—and then the magician’s eyes rolled back and he keeled over.

Murtagh caught him and lowered him to the floor. He’d never had someone faint on him during a mental battle before.