CHAPTER XXIII

Fire and Wind

The Draumar were warded against magic, but they were not warded against the effects of magic.

At Murtagh’s shouted command, a torrent of ferocious wind knocked the cultists and prisoners off their feet, and even sent a number of them tumbling across the flagstones. Behind him, the bonfire roared to sudden heights, the flames leaping twenty feet or more into the air, and a cloud of swirling embers filled the yard while writhing shadows stretched to the surrounding buildings.

Summoning so much wind ought to have been beyond Murtagh’s strength, but he drained the yellow diamond empty, and he drew upon Thorn and Uvek, and his might was more than that of any single man, even a Rider.

The tip of the black-bladed dagger bounced off Bachel’s breast, stopped by a spell, and the weapon flew from his hand.

Then the witch was shouting in a guttural, unfamiliar language as she jumped back. One of her onyx claws pointed at him.

“Skölir!” he shouted. Shield. It was a generic ward, so vague as to be dangerous, but it was all he had time for.

Gouts of inky darkness poured from her finger and flowed around Murtagh as water around a stubborn boulder, deflected by his counterspell.

Another word, and she could kill him. His makeshift ward could be bypassed in any number of ways. So he did what always ought to be the first thing in a duel between magicians: he attacked Bachel’s mind with his own. Now freed of the Breath and the vorgethan, he knew he had a chance of overcoming her, if he could just—

Bachel laughed, and there was no humor or levity in the sound, only cruel, scornful mocking.

She stepped back, and a cloud of flapping wings and clattering beaks and stark white eyes obscured her as the murder of crows descended into the yard and surrounded the witch. Then the birds darted forward, and Murtagh heard and felt them everywhere around him, and they blotted out the light.

In the distance, Uvek bellowed, and fear shaded his thoughts.

From within the storm of crows, Murtagh sensed the witch’s mind slipping away, like a wisp on the wind. He tried to find her again, but to no avail. The minds of the flitting birds confused his inner eye, and he felt himself lost and uncertain of his balance.

It was an untenable position. At any moment, a blade or spell might end him.

Desperate, Murtagh thought back to the compendium, and he uttered the simplest, and greatest, of the killing words: “Deyja.”

Die.

The crows fell as dark, heavy rain.

He stood alone beside the altar. The female prisoner had rolled off the block of basalt. Around him lay a rosette of slain crows, their feathers pressed flat against the flagstones, as so many green-black petals.

Bachel was gone. Vanished. As was Grieve, and half the guests at the long table.

Blast it. He needed to catch Bachel before she could work more evil. But first—

The cultists were massing at the side of the courtyard, warriors and common Draumar alike gathering themselves for a charging attack.

“Vindr!” Murtagh drove them back with word and wind as he strode to Thorn. Once more the dragon’s strength served as his own. With another arcane command—“Kverst!”—he struck the shackles and muzzle from Thorn, and then he took the blackstone charm from his boot, pressed it against Thorn’s snout, and again said, “Shûkva.”

The change in Thorn’s demeanor was instantaneous. He arched his neck and roared, and a glittering ripple flashed along his sinuous length. At last! he said. And the feel of his mind, once more whole and sound, filled Murtagh’s eyes with tears.

It was the work of seconds to effect a similar cure on Uvek and to free him of his fetters.

The Urgal rolled his massive, rounded shoulders and let out a roar to match Thorn’s. “Is good, Murtagh-man. Has been long time since I fought. This I think I enjoy.”

“No younglings,” said Murtagh in a hard tone as he handed the blackstone charm back to the Urgal.

A rippling sheet of flame shot from Thorn’s mouth, driving back the surging mass of cultists. The same goes for you, said Murtagh with his mind. Leave the younglings alone.

I will try.

Uvek lifted his horns to show his throat. “As you say, Murtagh-man. And I ask you not kill more crows. Is bad fortune.”

Murtagh nodded in return. “I promise. Now let’s—”

He stopped when he saw Alín appear deep among the shadowed pillars that fronted the temple, running toward them with Thorn’s saddle and bags piled in her arms. As she staggered beneath the weight, Grieve and two armored acolytes darted up from behind and seized her.

The saddle and bags fell, and Alín thrashed in a frantic attempt to free herself. But Grieve and the acolytes dragged her back into the depths of the temple, and they vanished from sight even as Murtagh readied a spell.

He shouted in anger and started after her.

After two steps, he swung back to Thorn and slapped him on the side. “Go! Break! Burn! Tear this place to the ground.”

Thorn’s jaws parted in a toothy snarl, and the tip of his tail twitched. I thought you would never ask. Then he roared again and leaped into the air with a thunderous sweep of his wings.

The backdraft sent swirls of embers through the air, each one a tiny whirling firestorm.

As Thorn cleared the buildings that edged the courtyard, he laid down a wall of fire between Murtagh and the massing mob. A clutch of arrows pierced the wall and streaked past his head, trailing pennants of flapping flames.

Murtagh sprinted toward the temple even as the flames died down and the cultists surged forward. Behind him, he heard Uvek loose a mighty bellow: a battle cry fit to make even the bravest man quail.

Then Murtagh was among the dark rows of faceted columns. He ran through the open doors of blackened oak, down the alcove-lined passage, and into the atrium with the nightmarish statue of dream.

A deafening crash sounded behind him, and an enormous thud vibrated the ground. He spun around to see a cloud of dust rising above the front of the temple. A dark shadow swept over him as Thorn swooped overhead.

There, said Thorn. None shall reach you from the entrance. I blocked the doors with stone. As he spoke, the dragon alit upon the Tower of Flint and began to tear at the slate shingles that roofed it. A twisting stream of angry, frightened, cawing crows flew up through the holes and dispersed into the smoke that darkened the valley.

Murtagh smiled tightly. Thanks. Be careful.

Thorn roared in response.

Then Murtagh turned left and started out of the atrium, heading toward the temple’s inner sanctum, where he was most likely to find Bachel, Grieve, and Alín.

Along the way, he ended his shielding spell. It was too broad to be truly effective, and although it was a ward, the way he had cast it was as an ongoing effect, which was costing him precious energy that he knew—or rather, feared—he would need to overcome Bachel. Better to start fresh with proper wards, which would only trigger when actually needed.

As he passed among the pillars along the southern edge of the atrium, he struggled to remember the exact wording of his earliest wards. It had been some time since he cast them, and it wouldn’t do to accidentally curse himself. Ah, that’s it, he thought, and opened his mouth to—

A heavy weight slammed into his back, between the shoulder blades. His head whipped back, pain shot through his neck, and he fell forward onto the paved floor. White sparks flashed behind his eyes as his forehead bounced off the stones.

A boot rammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Then again. And again.

“There! That’s right! You never were any better than a piece of gutter filth!” shouted Lyreth.

The sound of his voice and the feel of the blows filled Murtagh’s mind with memories of being ambushed on the spiral staircase at the citadel of Urû’baen. An instinctual sense of panic and helplessness gripped him, and he curled into a kneeling ball, trying to protect his head and the back of his neck.

Magic. That was the answer. If he could just cast a spell—

Something hard struck his temple. His vision flickered, and the ground seemed to tilt and turn beneath him. Dazed, he tried to recover, but it was impossible to think, impossible to move—

He lost his balance and rolled onto his side. He saw Lyreth standing over him, a bloodstained brass goblet in one hand, a vicious, snarling expression on his face. Lyreth raised the goblet again and—

Something yanked Lyreth to the side and sent him tumbling across the floor. The goblet fell and bounced with several high-pitched tings.

Then Uvek was standing over Murtagh, offering him a huge grey hand. In the other, the Urgal held a spear taken from the Draumar.

“Thanks,” Murtagh managed to gasp as he accepted Uvek’s help and the Urgal pulled him onto his feet.

“Of course, blood brother.”

Several pillars away, Lyreth stood somewhat unsteadily. He glanced between Murtagh and Uvek, and fear widened his eyes. He made to turn, as if to flee, and Murtagh said, “Don’t even think about it, Lyreth. I could kill you with a word.”

The noble’s face went even paler. He wet his lips. “Nonsense. Bachel’s magic protects me.”

Ah, he has an amulet.

“Do you really think that can stop me, Lyreth? Me? Even Galbatorix could not stop me with his oaths. If not for me, you’d still be a slave to his will.” It was a bluff, but Murtagh somehow believed his own words. If forced to, he felt sure he could find a way past the amulet’s wards. Somehow.

Lyreth lifted his sharp jaw. “So then kill me. What are you waiting for?” When Murtagh didn’t immediately answer, he smirked and began to back away. “That’s what I thought. An empty b—”

“No,” said Uvek, and his voice was like grinding rocks. He pointed at Lyreth with one hooked nail. “You stay.” Lyreth froze. There was no chance he could outrun an Urgal, and they all knew it. “Do you want I should kill this hornless stripling for you, Murtagh-man?”

Murtagh was sorely tempted. But he shook his head. “No. Leave him. He’ll make a better prisoner. We’ll take him back to face Nasuada’s interrogators.”

Fear again animated Lyreth’s face, but then he assumed the same haughty, contemptuous expression that Murtagh had learned to hate growing up. “Do you think it’s so easy to make me a prisoner? You never could best me at court, Murtagh.”

“And you could never best me in the arena. Goreth of Teirm could attest to that.”

Somewhere in the village, a building collapsed amid shouts and roars. Murtagh resisted the urge to look. He felt no pain from Thorn; the dragon was safe enough.

Lyreth made a dismissive motion. “You don’t have a sword now, Murtagh son of Morzan, and if you have that pet Urgal of yours catch and bind me, you’re a bigger coward than I thought. I wager you can’t make me bend a knee. I wager upon my life.”

It was a provocation, and Murtagh knew it, but neither could he let the challenge pass unanswered. “It might very well be on your life,” he said darkly. He wiped a line of blood from his throbbing temple. “No one calls me coward without a fair answer.”

Uvek nodded approvingly. “I will watch, Murtagh-man. Is good to fight. Clears the blood, adds honor to your name.”

“And my honor is your honor. Yes.”

The Urgal moved back several paces as Murtagh and Lyreth began to circle each other among the pillars. Lyreth’s unexpected courage puzzled Murtagh; he never would have thought of Lyreth as brave. Cunning, yes. Charming, when need be, yes. Cruel, most certainly. But not the sort of man who would jump at the opportunity to lead a charge in battle.

He must really want to avoid being captured. The thought gave Murtagh pause. If that was Lyreth’s true motivation, then—

He sprang forward. If he was right, delay would be deadly. With two steps, he closed the distance with Lyreth and, before the other man could back away, grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand while striking him in the jaw with a fist.

Lyreth took the blow better than Murtagh expected, and a second later, he felt an answering blow against his left kidney. The pain made Murtagh’s eyes water, and his whole body went rigid, save for his knees, which buckled.

Then Lyreth pushed against him, and they were falling together.

A jarring thud as they collided with the floor. For a minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing as they wrestled across the flagstones. Up close, Lyreth smelled of wine and a cloying, peach-scented perfume that Murtagh found distinctly off-putting.

The other man fought with desperate strength, but desperate or not, he was far weaker than Murtagh, and Murtagh soon gained the advantage. Lyreth seemed to realize his plight, for he resorted to the lowest of tactics and drove his thumbs into Murtagh’s eyes.

Pain caused Murtagh to jerk his head back, and his vision flashed white and red, and sparkling stars exploded at the points where Lyreth’s thumbs contacted.

They separated, and a second later, they were both on their feet, fists raised, hair tousled, teeth bared. Murtagh blinked. The world throbbed with reds and yellows, every line and angle outlined with a glowing halo.

Several quick jabs followed, and then Murtagh grew impatient and rushed Lyreth. He was no longer a youngling, and he’d be thrice cursed before he let Lyreth again use him badly.

He slammed Lyreth into a pillar, and the man’s head cracked against the carved stone.

For an instant, Murtagh thought he’d won. Then a flash of silver by his belt caught his attention: Lyreth fumbling to draw a short-bladed dagger from under the hem of his tunic.

Alarm spiked Murtagh’s pulse. He jumped backward, but too late: a burning line slashed across his ribs as Lyreth lashed out with the weapon.

Murtagh resisted the urge to disengage. Instead, he stepped forward again and trapped Lyreth’s arm between their bodies. He caught the man’s wrist with his hand and bent it inward until the dagger pointed back at Lyreth, and before Lyreth could drop the weapon, he shoved the knife deep into Lyreth’s chest.

Lyreth stiffened and let out a grunt, but he kept struggling against Murtagh, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the wound. Murtagh knew he’d hit the man’s heart. He’d bleed out given enough time, but that could be a minute or more, and Lyreth was fighting with the same stubborn tenacity as a buck that had been struck in the chest by an arrow and refused to fall.

This is taking too long. The thought came to Murtagh with cold clarity. Alín needed rescuing. More importantly, Bachel was still on the loose, which meant Thorn was in danger, even if some of the dragon’s wards remained. The contest with Lyreth was an unnecessary distraction, and a dangerous one at that.

All anger left him then, and he stepped back and pulled the dagger free of Lyreth’s chest. A spray of crimson blood hit him, and the color drained from Lyreth’s face. The man flailed and scrambled after Murtagh, only to collapse into his arms.

Keeping a firm grip on the dagger, Murtagh lowered Lyreth to the ground. Already he could see the light fading from Lyreth’s eyes. His first instinct was to let the man die. But he didn’t want to lose all that Lyreth knew.

“Waíse heill,” he said, and placed his left palm against the wound in the man’s chest. It was a risky spell; he could be attempting to heal something that was beyond his strength or ability, but it was all he had time for.

The spell had no effect.

Lyreth chuckled. He sounded genuinely amused. Blood stained the corners of his mouth. “I’m charmed, remember? Your spells…won’t…work.”

Murtagh ripped open the front of Lyreth’s tunic, convinced he would see one of Bachel’s bird-skull amulets hanging around Lyreth’s neck. But all he found was pale skin and the red-lipped line that was the wound into Lyreth’s heart.

“What did you do?” he said, angry.

Lyreth chuckled again, more weakly this time. “Bound wards to…me…. No need for…amulet.” His gaze wandered for a moment, and then he rallied and looked at Murtagh with undisguised spite. “You always were a…bastard.”

And then he went limp, and his last breath left his body.

Murtagh stood and looked down at the corpse. “No,” he finally said. “Eragon’s the bastard. Not me.”

“A good kill, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek.

Murtagh grunted. He motioned to the Urgal. “We’d better hurry.”