Then Murtagh did as he had to, though it made him sick to bear it. He went to Goreth and attempted to give the man a quick death with a cut to the neck. But Goreth raised his arm, and Murtagh’s blade skated off Goreth’s iron vambrace. The man wasn’t about to give up and die. Murtagh hated him for it as much as he pitied him. He lost all sense of control then, and began to rain blows upon Goreth even as the man continued to attempt to fend him off. All the while Goreth kept screaming and pleading, and Murtagh was shouting as well, nonsense sounds to drown out the man’s voice.
When it was over, blood stained the packed sand for yards around them, and Goreth’s horribly cut and disfigured body was finally still.
Murtagh fell to one knee and used his sword as a crutch to keep from collapsing. It was a terrible abuse of the weapon, but right then he didn’t care how badly Tornac might thrash him for wrecking the edge on the blade.
A lone clapping sounded from the throne, and Galbatorix stood. The rest of the onlookers rose in response. “Well done, Murtagh.” He gestured with a finger, and Murtagh gasped and clutched his wounded forearm as skin and muscles squirmed like snakes and knit themselves whole. Then the king said, as an aside to the marshal: “Bring him to my chambers once he is washed and changed.”
“My liege.”
The king departed, along with his followers, and the arena quickly emptied, leaving Murtagh alone with the corpse of his first kill. The marshal approached, but before he could speak, Tornac appeared by Murtagh’s side. “I’ll see that he gets to the king,” Tornac said in a harsh voice, and the marshal did not argue.
As Tornac guided him out of the arena, Murtagh said, “I…I…He wouldn’t—”
“You did what was necessary. Don’t think about it.”
But of course Murtagh did. And it was after meeting with Galbatorix in his chambers—where the king set him the task of destroying a village he believed was harboring traitors of the Varden—that Murtagh, with Tornac’s wholehearted agreement, decided to flee the capital and Galbatorix himself.
He never spoke of the duel again.
***Some days after the cultists began their preparations for the festival, a small group of visitors arrived at Nal Gorgoth. The men came riding on proud horses, and they blew a horn to announce their arrival. They were richly appointed, and they carried pennants with colorful designs, and they were well armed and well armored.
In the temple’s inner sanctum, Murtagh sat upon a stone chair next to Bachel’s throne. More chairs had been set up in a double row extending from the dais with the throne, and on them reclined the visitors. The men looked to be a mix of nobles and, as evidenced by their fine garb, merchants. Their faces seemed to swim before Murtagh; he found it difficult to concentrate on their features, and remembering them was next to impossible. But there was something familiar about—
