His wards were gone, his dragon was dead, his strength had seeped away with his magic, a frantic effort to save the last of those he loved from an inevitable fate. His last fight was with himself.
Murtagh exhaled the words he knew would take away the last snippet of life he had left. To protect Eth'ye and Aoifa her dragon, his last students. He felt his energy depart, the air rushing from his lungs, his blood stilled in his veins.
Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes, and he fought to keep his feet, his legs shaking. It took all his effort to move his ribcage for the breath he knew would do nothing. The room continued to spin in a blurry haze. He barely heard the footsteps behind him, but his fingers tightened on Zar'roc.
A hideous pain ripped through him, forcing that breath from his lungs. He saw the blade protrude from his stomach through a veil of sickening pain, and grasped at the wound, stumbling forward onto his knees.
Now he was hardly aware of the red liquid dripping from his shaking hands into a thick puddle at his knees. He choked, blood pouring out his mouth, and clutched at consciousness. His eyelids dragged themselves over his eyes, but he stubbornly refused to collapse. He didn't feel his chest collide with the stone floor.
Aoifa's screams of battle fury were the sounds that rang last in his ears, and his lips curved in a smile.
He didn't even know who had killled him.
