Murtagh

“Why?” asked Esvar in a guileless voice. Tears gleamed in his eyes. “Why would you? I thought…I thought you wanted t’ be part of the watch. Why, why, why?”

“I wish I could,” said Murtagh. He gestured at Silna’s crouched form. “But some things are more important than oaths.”

Confusion filled Esvar’s eyes. “What does a cat have t’ do with it? I don’t understand.”

“I’m glad you don’t,” said Murtagh. He hesitated and then grasped the hilt of the sword sticking out of Esvar. The young man stiffened and held up a hand as if to stop him. “Bite your sleeve. This is going to hurt.”

After a second, Esvar obeyed.

Murtagh gathered his will and said, “Waíse heill,” as he drew the blade out of Esvar’s chest.

The youth arched his back, and cords of muscle stood out on his neck as his clawed hands scrabbled at the floor. Blood welled out around the broken blade as it slid free, and then muscle and skin knit back together, leaving behind unblemished flesh.

Esvar fell back on the floor, limp, and Murtagh sagged with sudden exhaustion. “Why?” whispered Esvar. “Y’ swore an oath, Task.”

Murtagh clenched and unclenched his hands. “I’m sorry. The watch isn’t all you think it is.”

As he turned to leave, he spotted something around Arven’s neck. On a sudden hunch, Murtagh bent, dug his finger under the magician’s collar, and pulled free…

A bird-skull amulet, identical to the one Sarros had been wearing in Ceunon.

Murtagh stared for a second and then covered the amulet with his hand and yanked it off Arven’s neck. He tucked the amulet into the pouch on his belt—next to the one from Ceunon—as he stood. Looking back at Silna, he said, “Come.”

The werecat trotted after him as he strode out of the garden and through the rooms beyond.

***

As Murtagh stepped into the catacomb tunnel, he heard voices and clattering armor echoing down the staircase that led to the barracks.

What took them so long? he wondered.

To his left, the tunnel ran under the fortress. That way lay more enemies and uncertain escape.

To his right, the passageway would take him out under the main part of Gil’ead. It was his best chance of slipping away without another fight.

Silna attempted to run past him, but he caught her around the belly. “Ah, ah. I don’t think so,” he murmured, and scooped her off the floor.

She tried to wriggle free, but he pressed her close against his side as he turned right and sprinted into the unknown. To his relief, she didn’t bite or claw.

The sound of his pounding footsteps outpaced them in the darkness.

The tunnel curved. Once the staircase was out of sight, Murtagh whispered, “Brisingr,” and formed a small red flame above his head so he could see his way.

Silna growled at the light, and her pupils contracted wire thin.

“Quiet.”

A few hundred feet later, he arrived at an iron grate blocking the tunnel. He grabbed the bars and yanked on them. Flakes of rust showered him, but the metal held.

“Jierda!” The metal snapped like rotten wood, and Murtagh shoved the grate against one wall and hurried past.

His boots splashed in water. A thin rivulet ran down the center of the tunnel, and the walls dripped with moisture. A rat the size of a small dog squeaked when it saw him and the werecat and scurried into a hole in the stone wall.

Behind him, Murtagh heard shouts and curses and spears beating against shields. He quickened his pace as much as he could without losing his footing on the wet rocks.

Silna squirmed in his arm, and he tightened his hold.

The tunnel split in four directions. Uncertain, he took the leftmost branch. Not much farther, it split again, and then yet again, and Murtagh realized he didn’t have the slightest idea which direction he was going. He didn’t despair, though. Tornac had taught him a trick for besting the hedge maze at Lord Varis’s estate, which was to turn in only one direction—left or right, it didn’t matter, as long as you were consistent. Solving a maze in such fashion might take a while, but if there was a path to the other side, doing so would always find it.

So Murtagh turned left at every opportunity. Twice more he had to cut through iron grates, but unlike before, he took the time—a few precious seconds—to reattach the grates, both to inconvenience his pursuers and to hide his trail. He just hoped that the catacombs had more than one exit and that he wouldn’t come out to find half the city’s garrison waiting for him.

Even with the werelight, the darkness was oppressive, and the walls seemed uncomfortably close. Murtagh felt as if he were no more than an insect creeping through the bowels of the earth. He hated the dark and the damp and the memories of being imprisoned beneath Urû’baen.

He tried to avoid remembering, but thoughts of Esvar and the cell hidden behind the door of stone were no less unpleasant. Oathbreaker, that’s what I am. And he knew it was so, for oathbreaker was part of his true name.