Murtagh

A powerful itch kindled in the middle of Murtagh’s palm.

He opened his mouth—

Lyreth’s finger pressed against the edge of the table.

Clunk! The floor dropped out beneath Murtagh, the room tilted like a pinwheel, and his stomach lurched as he plummeted into blinding darkness.

CHAPTER XV The Tangle Box

An instant of shapeless black void, a clang, and—

—a bone-jarring crash as his heels struck metal and his knees buckled.

He would have fallen onto all fours. He was falling, and then a battering ram seemed to slam into him front to back and side to side, pinning him in place, holding him upright.

The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he felt a sudden drain from his wards. He tried to inhale, but the crushing weight pressing in from all sides made it impossible.

Then the air around him vanished, and the last dregs of breath left in his lungs forced their way up his throat and out his mouth and nose.

He gaped like a stunned fish.

A high keening—eye-watering and teeth-vibrating—sounded inside his skull, so loud and penetrating it made thought itself difficult.

***

Time seemed to slow for Murtagh.

His lungs were burning with terrible fire. His veins throbbed. His skin was swollen like an overfilled bladder. Crimson stars mottled the edges of his vision. And the ever-present shrilling disrupted his ability to focus.

He had seconds to act, if that. He couldn’t speak, and holding the ancient language in his mind was impossible.

So he did the only thing he could.

He cast a spell without a word to guide the magic. Only intent constrained the burst of energy, and that intent contained and embodied a single sentiment: Stop!

The energy for the spell was spent in an instant. The shrilling stopped, and blessed silence reigned. But no air returned; still his lungs were empty, and still his veins burned, and he was about to pass out.

He could see only blackness, but he knew where he was: inside a tangle box. A trap for magicians, designed to keep them from speaking or thinking, designed to suffocate them so they could be safely disposed of.

He tried to rally his strength for a second spell. If he could break the walls of the tangle box, he could let in air, precious air, and if he could breathe, he would have a chance.

But he couldn’t concentrate well enough to again work magic. The glass-pane barrier in his mind was too strong for him to reach through to the flow of energy on the other side, and the crimson tunnel narrowing his vision had nearly closed.

Is this really how I die? THIS? The thought was enraging, but at the same time, he felt acceptance as awareness deserted him….

***

A thunderous crash sounded above. An earthquake-like vibration shook the metal underneath his feet, and the tremor passed up through his legs and chest and caused his teeth to chatter, rousing him back to awareness.

Stone cracked, metal tore, and then a rush of cold wind touched his cheeks.

His lungs filled with sweet air, and he gasped like a drowning man.

Bright daylight appeared overhead, dispelling the darkness. He looked up, coughing, blinking, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Through petals of torn iron, he saw Thorn leaning toward him, the dragon’s scales covered with chalky dust, his long, heavy jaws open to show rows of bloody teeth.

Behind the dragon, the sky was pale blue, devoid of clouds. Broken ceiling beams intruded on the bright expanse.

Thorn reached down with one taloned paw and scooped Murtagh out of the pile of muddy gravel that had immobilized him. Pebbles fell like hail as Thorn lifted him back up into the dining hall.

Murtagh’s chest heaved as he struggled for air. Thorn’s mind pressed against his, the dragon’s thoughts sharp with anger, fear, worry, and barely leashed panic. Still, his presence was comforting, and Murtagh began to think he might actually survive.

Thorn uncurled his paw and deposited Murtagh on the debris-covered floor. He nudged Murtagh in the ribs. How are you hurt? Tell me. Tell me! Try to breathe!

“I’m—” Murtagh gasped. “I’m…trying.” His lungs still burned as he forced himself onto his knees, half expecting to be attacked.

No sign remained of Lyreth in the dining hall. The fine wooden table was shattered to pieces beneath Thorn’s weight, and the silken tapestries hung in tatters. By the door to the hall lay three of the bullnecked guards, limp and bloodstained, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Thorn nudged him again. The dragon’s eyes were wide and wild, and his sides heaved, not just from exertion. Murtagh could nearly taste his fearful agitation.

Glancing around, Murtagh became aware of how small the interior of the house was. Thorn’s wings almost scraped the walls, which seemed to lean inward with ominous intent, and the timbers jutting overhead were uncomfortably similar to broken branches against a dead sky.