“What means presentable, Murtagh-man?”
“Fit to look at.” He was relieved to find his armor neatly stored inside the chest. And with it, the ancient language compendium, which was more valuable to him than any gold or gems.
The Urgal laughed as Murtagh pulled on his corselet of mail. “I no longer look for mate to live with, Murtagh-man. Broken horn will not be big problem.”
Moving with haste born of need, Murtagh donned his arming cap and helm, and then strapped on his greaves and vambraces. He decided against the breastplate; mobility was more important than protection from war hammers or the like. For that he had his ward. He belted on Zar’roc’s sheath and tucked the ancient language compendium into the pouch where he had stored the vial of Azlagûr’s Breath.
Then he scouted across the mosaic floor until he found one of the acolyte’s shields. Taking the shield, he returned to Uvek where he stood beside Grieve’s remains. “What is shagvrek?” Murtagh asked.
“Hard to say. Is hornless from before.”
“Before what?”
“Before hornless fill land. Before elves have pointed ears. Before dwarves were short. Before dragons had wings. Before that.”
Startled, Murtagh peered at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Uvek nodded. “Shagvrek old. Live in caves. Burn meat and eat dead.”
Before Murtagh could ask more questions, dull thuds sounded outside the temple, and a thin veil of dust sifted from the ceiling. Opening his mind once again, he could feel Thorn’s delighted, bloodthirsty rage as he tore apart the buildings in Nal Gorgoth. It was a shame, Murtagh thought, to lose such ancient structures (their carvings were well worth study), but he wasn’t about to let that stop him or Thorn from flattening the place. Nal Gorgoth and those who lived there were an abomination Murtagh was determined to see cleansed from the face of the earth.
He felt some pain from Thorn—arrows through his wings—but otherwise the dragon seemed unharmed.
Do you need help? he asked.
Only if you wish.
Uvek gave a restless glance toward the direction of the sounds. “Murtagh-man, there are other Urgralgra in Nal Gorgoth. Some prisoners. Some Draumar. Maybe Draumar will not listen to me, but I have duty to try.”
“Go. If you need aid in battle, call for Thorn.”
Uvek grunted and started to leave. Then he strode back to Murtagh and bent down and gently bumped foreheads with him. “Is good to have you as qazhqargla, Murtagh-man.”
An unexpected upswelling of camaraderie filled Murtagh. “And you as well, Uvek Windtalker.”
“Hrmm.”
Then the Urgal trotted away, his footsteps surprisingly quiet for his bulk, and Murtagh stood alone among the scattered corpses.
He ignored them. Closing his eyes, he sent his mind ranging through the village as he searched for Bachel, determined to find the witch and, once and for all, bring her to account. The thought of breaking her power held dark appeal. As she had done to him, he would do to her. She had brought him low, and he wanted revenge.
That, and he wanted to help Alín. No, needed.
Throughout Nal Gorgoth, he felt a confused chorus of pain and terror as the cultists fled before Thorn or else attempted, in vain, to halt the dragon’s rampage. But nowhere among the panicked minds of the Draumar did he detect the familiar shape of Bachel’s thoughts.
He delved deeper. Extending his consciousness into the depths, he searched under the buildings, down among the rot of tunnels that corrupted the roots of the mountains.
There. A cluster of sparks, as errant fireflies trapped far below the surface. He reached toward the brightest one, and the spark flared in response, and then pulled inward and shrank as Bachel shielded her thoughts from his.
Dread certainty congealed within Murtagh. The witch knew he was coming, and she was not alone. They would be ready for him. Ideally, he would take Bachel prisoner, that he might finally have his answers—most specifically about the activities of the Draumar in Nasuada’s realm—but Murtagh suspected the witch would sooner die than submit. That was acceptable too. Bachel was so dangerous, keeping her captive would be like trying to restrain a rabid beast with his bare hands. Nor would killing her be much easier, if even he could.
For a moment, doubt assailed him. We could still leave. There was nothing to stop him and Thorn from flying away. They could fetch reinforcements, and with Eragon or Arya by their side, the witch would hardly stand a chance. But there was no guarantee Bachel or the Draumar would hold in Nal Gorgoth while they were gone.
And in any case, he couldn’t abandon Alín. He’d made her a promise.
At least Bachel won’t shake the mountains while she’s under them, he thought, and felt grateful for the smallest of mercies.
Shield in one hand, sword in the other, he trotted out of the temple sanctum and toward the back of the building. There, he found the door that opened upon the cropped sward abutting the western side of the temple. Thick plumes of black smoke rose from vents in the ground.
A terrific crash caused him to flinch and turn. One side of the Tower of Flint had just collapsed inward, reducing the structure to a mound of rubble.
Past the tower, flames lit Nal Gorgoth. Half the buildings had their roofs torn off. Loose stones lined the streets, and bodies too.
Thorn swooped past, scales shining, threads of hot blood trailing from his wings.
Murtagh saluted, and the dragon roared in return. Then Murtagh started across the sward, heading toward the grove of pinetrees beyond. I’m going to find Bachel, he said.
Grim concern was Thorn’s first response. It is too dangerous.
I know, but I must.
Do not go alone. Take Uvek with you.
He has duties elsewhere, and I need you to keep the Draumar occupied out here.
Across the village, Thorn roared again, this time with frustration. You won’t ask me because you know I’m too afraid.
Murtagh stopped for a moment, his own emotions a conflicting welter. I didn’t want to trouble you. That is all. You’re as brave a being as any I know. Then, more gently: You probably won’t even fit in the tunnels down there.
You don’t know that.
Then come if you want! I’m not trying to stop you.
An uncomfortable silence followed, and Murtagh could feel Thorn’s mind churning with a mix of shame and anger.
Finally, Murtagh said, I have to go. Guard yourself well.
…And you the same. Then a snarl echoed across the tumbled rooftops. Make the witch sorry she ever thought to chain us.
“I’ll try,” Murtagh muttered, starting forward again.
A pair of sword-wielding Draumar sprinted toward him from the grove. He cut them down, one after the other, with decisive swings of Zar’roc. The elven-forged blade shattered the sword of the second cultist into silver shards.
Murtagh let out a shout as he hurried forward. It was more a battle cry than anything: a release of the furious energy coursing through him. He knew the feeling well; it was an old companion. Some men fought while in the grip of an icy calm, and he appreciated the value of that, but calm held no appeal for him at this moment. He had been bound, and now he was released, and every bottled bit of rage boiled out of him, as steam from a heated rock.