Nor did he wait to find out.
He opened his mouth to speak the Word and break any spells protecting the men or directed at him or Silna. But before he could utter a sound, the men spotted him, and a blade of thought stabbed into his mind—the magician attacking the very essence of his self.
Stay! Murtagh flung the word toward Silna’s consciousness, and then turtled in on himself, armoring his mind with blinkered focus: “You shall not have me. You shall not have me.” He dared not let the magician see his thoughts, and because of that, he dared not loosen his defenses enough to speak the Word and work magic of his own. Not until he gained control of his enemy’s mind.
The werecat kitten cowered behind his back foot and hissed.
The three guards in the front charged: one in front, two behind.
Murtagh swept his cloak across their field of vision, causing them to flinch, and used the momentary cover to draw his arming sword.
The distraction allowed him to strike first. He jabbed the lead man in his right hip and—
—the tip of the blade skated off an invisible barrier a finger’s width from the guard’s skin.
Blast it!
The guard slashed at Murtagh with his own weapon, causing Murtagh to duck. Swordplay alone wasn’t going to win the day. He had to figure out a way around the guard’s wards.
His misadventure with Muckmaw leaped to mind.
Fine. Bracing himself, Murtagh slammed his shoulder into the guard’s chest and knocked him across the room. The guard’s wards kept him from suffering scratches or worse as he crashed into a pair of bushes, but they did nothing to keep his head from whipping to the side and striking the crystal case that contained the blue-black egg, dazing the poor man.
Cracks spiderwebbed the case.
The next soldier shouted and stabbed a spear toward Murtagh’s face. He let his own wards deflect the blow as he darted forward and, still holding the sword, clapped his hands against the sides of the guard’s helmet. The man cried out, dropped his spear, and collapsed.
As Murtagh had suspected. No wards against sound.
The third guard poked at Murtagh with a billed pike. He dodged and smashed the pommel of his sword against the crest of the man’s helm. The blow staggered the guard, and Murtagh followed up with another clap on either side of the man’s head, which sent him reeling into a bed of lilies.
The whole while, Murtagh could feel the magician trying to dig into his mind. The man’s neck was corded with strain, his lips pressed white against his bared teeth, and his hands worked feverishly within the sleeves of his robe.
Murtagh started for him, but Esvar stepped in front of the magician and raised his sword.
“Move aside,” said Murtagh between clenched teeth.
Esvar held his ground. His face was red with anger, but he also had a look of hurt innocence that Murtagh could hardly bear to see. “You swore,” said Esvar. “You swore. I was there. An’ you betrayed us!”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Murtagh. “Stand down.” A bumblebee flew past his face. Its body was iridescent blue.
Esvar shook his head, his expression one of fixed determination, and took a half step forward. “Never! You attacked th’ guard. I’ll die afore I let you pass. Traitor.”
Murtagh had been called worse. He spared a glance for the men lying groaning on the floor; they wouldn’t be a problem. Silna still crouched low to the ground behind him, safe for the moment.
“Kill him,” said the magician, his voice tight with strain.
“You’re no match for me,” said Murtagh. He sounded calmer than he felt.
Esvar’s upper lip curled. “Don’t matter. It’s my duty.” And he lunged, extending his arm in a long stab aimed at Murtagh’s throat.
Murtagh parried, closed the distance between them, and smashed the pommel of his sword against Esvar’s helmet. The younger man dropped to one knee, and Murtagh was about to step past when Esvar drove his shoulders into Murtagh’s knees.
His knees locked out and lightning shocks of pain radiated from the joints. Murtagh stumbled back and watched with some amazement as Esvar got to his feet and shook his head. A thread of blood trickled from his left ear.
“My ma always said I had a thick head,” said Esvar, grim. He lifted his sword again. “Y’ can batter me deaf, Task, but you’ll have t’ kill me afore you get by.”
Murtagh’s frustration boiled over into anger, and he launched several quick jabs at Esvar’s shoulders and hips, hoping that if one of them went through, the wound wouldn’t prove fatal or crippling. But none of them did. Esvar’s wards continued to protect him. The impact of blade against spell sent sparks flying from Murtagh’s sword, and he saw the tip was bent and broken.
He wished Zar’roc was in his hand. Even if the enchanted blade couldn’t cut through Esvar’s wards, the brightsteel wouldn’t break.
Esvar fell back before the blows. He rallied and replied with another strike, attempting to cut Murtagh across the neck and waist.
“Why. Won’t. You. Give. Up!” shouted Murtagh, his fury swelling like a storm. He rained down a series of heavy cuts onto Esvar, breaking his guard and driving the young man to his knees. There was no finesse to Murtagh’s attack, no art, no grace or intelligence as Tornac had taught him, just sheer brute strength. And yet Esvar’s wards continued to hold. Murtagh’s sword glanced off his clothes and skin as if deflected by oiled ice.
Murtagh could see that the spells were tiring Esvar, but no faster than the blows tired Murtagh.
Esvar lashed out with a blind swing toward Murtagh’s legs. Murtagh let the blow bounce off his thigh and hammered at the guard’s shoulder with every fiber of his being, as if he were trying to split the earth itself.
Ting!
His sword shattered, and half of it flew spinning across the room to embed itself in a length of dragon bone.
Murtagh stabbed with the needle-tipped shard that remained attached to the crossguard and—
—the jagged piece of metal sank into Esvar’s upper chest, between his neck and shoulder, near his collarbone.
The guard’s eyes went wide, and he fell onto his backside, stunned. He put a hand to his chest, and his mouth worked several times, but no sound came out.
In an instant, Murtagh’s rage shifted to regret, sorrow, and loathing for what he had done. The distraction was enough for the magician to delve deeper into his mind, gripping and tearing in an attempt to control Murtagh’s thoughts.
“Oh no you don’t!” he growled, finally giving the spellcaster his undivided attention. He attacked the consciousness of the robed man, holding nothing back, only seeking to overwhelm, crush, and suppress.
The spellcaster’s mental defenses crumbled before the onslaught, and Murtagh received a brief flash of imagery from the man—his name was Arven, and he was deeply frightened about, about…—and then the magician’s eyes rolled back and he keeled over.
Murtagh caught him and lowered him to the floor. He’d never had someone faint on him during a mental battle before.
“Why?” asked Esvar in a guileless voice. Tears gleamed in his eyes. “Why would you? I thought…I thought you wanted t’ be part of the watch. Why, why, why?”
“I wish I could,” said Murtagh. He gestured at Silna’s crouched form. “But some things are more important than oaths.”
Confusion filled Esvar’s eyes. “What does a cat have t’ do with it? I don’t understand.”
“I’m glad you don’t,” said Murtagh. He hesitated and then grasped the hilt of the sword sticking out of Esvar. The young man stiffened and held up a hand as if to stop him. “Bite your sleeve. This is going to hurt.”