Murtagh gestured toward Uvek’s shoulder. “Let me see. I can help.”

  Uvek grunted and shook his head. “Is not bad, Murtagh-man. An Urgralgra wears his hurts with pride. I will live.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The Urgal seemed offended that Murtagh would question his word. “Sure, sure. This small hurt. I had much worse from bear. I will live.”

  “Good.”

  With the toes of his bare foot, Uvek nudged the fallen tip of his horn. “Not good to lose horn, but horn grow back.”

  Murtagh started back for the chest behind the dais. “I suppose you’ll just have to live in a cave until you’re presentable again.”

  “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.

  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.

  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.

  Once more, he reached out with his mind. When he was assured that no one (and no thing) was close enough to ambush him, he closed his eyes and focused on his inner eye.

  He had to range farther and deeper than he expected before he again located Bachel’s white-hot spark of consciousness. She was below him—almost directly underneath the top of the well—and at such a distance, he thought it would take a rock many seconds to fall to her.

  “Blast it.” He eyed the human-sized doorways leading out of the chamber. The prospect of getting lost underground appealed to him no more than it had in Gil’ead. But there was no helping it; he had to find Bachel and stop her from escaping.

  Right. He started toward the corresponding doorway. Most folks were right-handed, so if either passage was to lead somewhere important, he guessed it would be that one. And if he were wrong…He wondered how difficult it would be to use magic to blast his way straight through the rock. Even Thorn would struggle to muster enough energy to burrow more than a short distance. Rock was heavy, and no amount of chanting in the ancient language would change that.

  He ran onward.

  * * *

  The warren of tunnels beneath the marble-clad chamber was far more complicated than Murtagh had feared. If not for his ability to sense Thorn’s mind—even at a distance—he would have quickly ended up hopelessly turned around.

  Not far from the chamber, he again found himself in passages large enough for Thorn to have moved through. The wending shafts ran in seemingly random directions, through chambers natural and otherwise—many times he chanced upon what appeared to be shrines or altars or abandoned guardrooms—but always they led downward.

  Although the slime-glow was often bright enough to illuminate his path, more than a few of the spaces were as black as the void between the stars. To keep the patches of blinding darkness from unduly slowing him, Murtagh relented and created a red werelight that floated some feet above and in front of his head. The combination of colors from the werelight and the slime painted objects the most hideous shades. So much so that he sometimes had difficulty recognizing the substance of what he saw. He nearly altered the werelight to the pure white of the sun’s noonday radiance, but he valued his night eyes too much.