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.”
CHAPTER XXIV
Grieve
As Murtagh ran with Uvek toward the temple’s inner sanctum, he quickly cast a basic ward against physical damage, and he was just beginning to formulate a ward that could protect him, or others, against the Breath when they arrived in the echoing room.
There, waiting for them in the presence chamber, was Grieve and seven acolytes in their armor of leather scales. Grieve carried his iron-shod club; the acolytes carried spears and wooden roundshields.
Neither Bachel nor Alín was to be seen.
Uvek stomped his feet and bellowed, and the sound of his war cry echoed a dozen times off the high ceiling.
“Where is Bachel?” said Murtagh, raising his voice over the echoes. He regripped Lyreth’s dagger. It was the only physical weapon he had.
“That is none of your concern, Outlander,” said Grieve in his harsh tone.
“I disagree. Tell me, and tell me where Alín is.”
Grieve smiled grimly. “With the Speaker. She shall see to the little traitor. Now surrender, Outlander, or you shall surely die.”
“You know I’ll never surrender.” Murtagh was already preparing for the mental assault he was convinced would follow.
Grieve snorted. “Of course, but formalities must be observed. I’m glad for the chance to be rid of you, Rider. And you as well, Urgal.”
Uvek let out a low growl. “You owe me blood, shagvrek, for death of Kiskû.”
A disdainful sneer crossed Grieve’s face. “Was that your bird? Annoying thing. Uvek Windtalker, the greatest shaman of his people, and yet you chose to sit atop a mountain and talk to a bird for years on end. What a waste.”
Rage darkened Uvek’s face, and he lowered his head so that, for a moment, Murtagh thought he was going to charge. “You are slave to dream, shagvrek. Is wrong-think to worship Bachel or Azlagûr. You crawl before them, happy for attention. Like dog.”
Grieve snarled, his expression hateful. “I am no slave, Urgralgra.” He spat out the word as if it were invective. “I serve those who accepted me.”
Uvek spread his broad arms. “Then let me give embrace. See how long you can stand welcome. Hrr-hrr-hrr.”
Grieve lifted his club and pointed it at Murtagh and Uvek. “Kill the unbelievers.” And he drew forth a crystal vial and threw it at the mosaic floor.
Murtagh had been expecting exactly that. Even as the vial flew through the air, he cried, “Drahtr!”
The vial swooped back up, just missing the floor, and gently arced into Murtagh’s left hand. Grieve’s face contorted with rage, and he bellowed as the seven acolytes charged Murtagh and Uvek.
Murtagh didn’t have time to slip the vial into the pouch on his belt before the first cultist was upon him. He sidestepped a jab of the man’s spear, sprang forward, and drove Lyreth’s dagger through the man’s temple.
Good thing they’re not wearing helmets.
He left the dagger where it was and snared the end of the cultist’s spear as the man fell. Holding it one-handed, he waved it at the other cultists while retreating. That bought him time to put away the vial, and then he had both hands on the haft of the spear. A fierce glee overtook him.
Beside him, Uvek caught a man’s spear and used it to smash the cultist against the brazier in the center of the chamber. Sparks and glowing coals flew like a shower of meteors. Another of the Draumar jabbed Uvek in the upper arm, but the Urgal’s hide was so thick, the cut drew no blood.
For the next minute, Murtagh and Uvek fought side by side. They were fit companions. The Urgal’s size and brute strength—as well as his unexpected speed—allowed him to break the line of Draumar and keep them on the defensive, while Murtagh felled his opponents with practiced ease.
As they fought, Grieve stalked the perimeter of the battle, hefting his iron-shod club. But he continued to hold himself apart, content for the time to let his minions strive unassisted with Murtagh and Uvek.
When just two of the cultists remained, and the glittering mosaic was slick with blood, then and only then did Grieve attack.
His assault came as a surprise. Murtagh was focused on the Draumar in front of him—a stocky, slump-shouldered man with a streak of grey along his brow—and he nearly missed Grieve’s club as it swung toward him.
Murtagh twitched and managed to deflect the devastating blow with his spear. At the same time, he felt the man’s mind driving against his own. And not just his; Uvek snarled and said, “You shall not have my thoughts, shagvrek!”
The addition of Grieve to the fight shifted the advantage back to the cultists, for the witch’s adviser and right-hand man struck with a power Murtagh had not anticipated—he seemed nearly as strong as a Kull—and though ungainly, he was swift on his feet. Fending him off was like trying to fence with a savage animal, fierce and untrammeled.
The five of them maneuvered around the pillars and the brazier in the center of the sanctum, each seeking to land a mortal blow. Murtagh stabbed his spear into the brazier and tossed a clump of coals at one of the remaining acolytes. The man ducked, and Murtagh moved in, only for Grieve to drive him back with swings of his heavy club.
A painful stalemate held as they struggled to and fro. Their blows, parries, and occasional shouts echoed through the space, and a pair of dispossessed crows fluttered about near the crown of the ceiling, screaming at the combatants below.
Then Uvek uttered a growl of frustration, and with one hand, he grasped the lip of the burning-hot brazier and flipped it over. Coals cascaded across the gory floor, and the heavy copper dish landed on the shoulders of a cultist, crushing him. A gong-like tone sounded.
“Desecrators!” cried Grieve.
Murtagh seized the opportunity to lunge forward and took the other acolyte in the throat. As the man sank gurgling and gasping to the floor, Uvek slipped his spear under the overturned brazier and stabbed the man struggling beneath its weight. The man went limp, and the brazier moved no more.