More Draumar attacked as he entered the grove. Five of them, armed with spears and swords and a single bow. Murtagh caught an arrow on his shield, and then he was among the cultists, beating and cutting and stabbing with deadly intent.
Dangerous as it was, Murtagh found the fight exhilarating, and he laughed at the fear of the men. Good. It was only right that they quailed before him.
The skirmish did not last even a minute. As the last body fell to the ground, he was already moving past, heart hammering, lungs heaving. His lips were drawn back to bare his teeth in a bloody grin, and he felt a sense of power gathered about himself, like an invisible cloak.
But even then, he knew his battle-born confidence was a falsity. Bachel would not be so easily overcome as her thralls. Cunning was needed, as much as strength, were he to have any chance of prevailing. So, as he exited the grove and advanced upon the yawning cavern set within the base of the foothills, he looked in the compendium for the words he needed to compose a spell that would protect him against the Breath of Azlagûr. The magic would filter the air, as a cheesecloth might filter water, and keep the poisonous vapor from entering his lungs.
Once he was well satisfied with the phrasing of the ward, he cast it, and a grim smile touched his lips. “Let us see how you like that, O Speaker of lies,” he muttered.
Fresh torches burned on either side of the ominous cave, and there were many tracks leading into the opening. Murtagh took them as evidence that Bachel had brought a contingent of warriors with her.
He hefted Zar’roc again, preparing himself, and then strode forward and allowed the darkness to swallow him.
PART IV
Oth Orum
CHAPTER I
Creatures of the Dark
The air in the cave was hot and stifling, and the heat seemed to be increasing as Murtagh descended along the cut-stone stairs. He did not remember it being so warm during his previous venture into the warren hidden beneath Nal Gorgoth. It must be because of the black smoke, he thought. But, of course, that failed to answer the question of what caused the black smoke itself.
As he hurried downward, he dipped his mind into the ruby mounted within Zar’roc’s pommel. A fair amount of energy remained stored within the faceted gem. Less than he’d hoped, but more than he’d feared.
He debated casting a spell to light his way, but he didn’t want to make himself an obvious target. Besides, he remembered the glowing fungus that populated the depths of the caves. He could wait for that dubious illumination. Better to be a hunter stalking in the dark than prey standing in a moonlit clearing.
Beads of sweat began to run down his brow and into his eyes. He wiped them away with the inside of his forearm, the rings of mail hard against his skin. Fighting was hot work, and the sweltering temperature of the cave only exacerbated the lather he’d worked up on the surface. As did the corselet of mail. Iron rings were the very opposite of a cooling fabric.
With his outstretched consciousness, he detected a flicker of life ahead of him, off to the side of the stairs. A man, he thought, but—
A whirring noise crossed the cave, and an arrow bounced off the air in front of his nose.
Murtagh flinched. Even after long acquaintance and deep familiarity with magic, instinct still made him react as if the arrow had been about to hit him. It was a sobering realization to know that, were he not a spellcaster, he would have just died.
He did not dwell on the thought.
Kneeling, he placed Zar’roc on the stairs and felt about until his fingers found a small, sharp chip of rock. He held it up on the palm of his hand and whispered, “Thrysta!”
The rock shot through the air, faster than any eye could see, and—aimed by his will—intersected with the consciousness of the cultist who had shot the arrow.
A flat smack echoed through the cave, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body falling.
Grimly satisfied, he continued onward.
When Murtagh arrived at the vast, slime-lit cave at the bottom of the stone staircase, three more Draumar came rushing out of the shadows to attack him.
The lead cultist jabbed a spear at his hip. Murtagh parried and lunged and ran the man through. Zar’roc pierced the man’s leather-scale armor as if it were no thicker than gossamer.
He withdrew blade from flesh, pivoted, and cut the next Draumar through the neck. The man’s head fell to the ground amid a shower of green blood and bounced away, hair flying in a tangled mess.
A high clang jarred Murtagh’s hearing as he caught the spear of cultist number three on his shield. The man jabbed again, his face a rictus of anger. Murtagh sidestepped and neatly chopped off his right arm.
The cultist howled and staggered back.
Murtagh gave him no quarter. He followed up with two quick thrusts: one between the man’s ribs and one up under his chin.
“Pathetic,” said Murtagh as the cultist collapsed. Grieve had been formidable enough, but if this was the quality of Bachel’s ordinaries, Murtagh was far from impressed. They had neither technique nor magic, only blind faith to fuel their violence. Tornac would not have approved.
A frown settled on Murtagh’s brow. Why were the cultists bothering to attack in such limited numbers? They had to know they stood no chance of stopping him.
They’re trying to delay me, he realized. Either so Bachel could escape or so the witch and her minions might prepare for his coming.
With a flick of his wrist, he shook the blood off Zar’roc’s blade. In a detached manner, he noted the liquid’s unusual appearance; it resembled the dark, iridescent green of the water beetles he would find around Urû’baen. Somehow the sickly glow emanating from the membranous slime on the cavern’s rocks had altered the color of the gore. His skin didn’t look normal either; it appeared horribly unhealthy, as if the slime-glow had leeched him of all vitality.
He hurried along the path of flagstones, eager to reach the Well of Dreams.
His steps quickly brought him to the three tunnels bored into the far wall of the enormous cave. As before, he took the central one, and rushed down the tunnel shingled with scalelike tiles.
Extending his mind, he searched for Bachel and her retinue. But he felt no tickle of thoughts, and his inner eye saw no bright sparks of being amid the surrounding darkness.
When he broke into the marble-clad chamber that housed the Well of Dreams, he found it empty, devoid of motion, save for the flames flickering in the alcoves along the walls. The well itself was open, the grated cover pulled aside to expose the shaft that plunged into unknown depths.
The stench of brimstone poured out of the well with sickening strength. Even as Murtagh took a step toward it, a column of black smoke erupted from its depths, billowed against the arched ceiling, and then ascended through narrow slits cut along the crown of the ceiling, and which he had not noticed before.
They built this in expectation of the smoke, Murtagh thought. He tried to imagine what lay below. Heated vents full of molten stone, or something of that like. He had heard of such things among the Beor Mountains: places where the mountains breathed fire, and hot smoke and ash often made the surroundings miserable to endure.
He risked a quick glance over the lip of the well. The hole beneath seemed bottomless. For a moment, his balance wavered, and he imagined falling and falling…forever lost in the bowels of the earth.
With an oath, he pulled himself back and looked around. “Where are you?” he muttered.