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.