Murtagh

A humorless laugh escaped him. “Oh yes.” He pointed at the small white mark on his chin, a gap in his otherwise full beard. “This one is only a few months old. A friend of mine gave it to me by accident while we were playing around, the big oaf.” The tip of a scale on Thorn’s left foreleg had caught Murtagh’s chin, tearing the skin. It hadn’t been a serious injury, but it had hurt badly and bled worse. Then he said, “What happened to your arm?”

Essie picked at the edge of the table. “It was an accident,” she mumbled. “A pot with hot water fell on my arm.”

Murtagh’s eyes narrowed. “It just fell on you?”

The girl nodded.

“Mmm.” Murtagh stared into the fire, at the jumping sparks and throbbing embers. He didn’t believe the girl. Accidents were common enough, but the way she was acting hinted at something worse.

His jaw flexed, teeth clenched. A warning throb sank down the root of his bottom right molar. There were many injustices he was willing to tolerate, but a mother or father hurting their child wasn’t one of them.

He glanced toward the bar. Maybe he needed to have a talk with Sigling, to put the fear of a Dragon Rider in the man.

Essie shifted. “Where are you from?”

“A long, long way from here.”

“In the south?”

“Yes, in the south.”

She kicked her feet against the chair again. “What’s it like there?”

Murtagh inhaled slowly and tilted his head back so he was looking at the ceiling. The fire in his blood still burned. “It depends where you go. There are hot places and cold places, and places where the wind never stops blowing. Forests seemingly without end. Caves that burrow into the deepest parts of the earth, and plains full of vast herds of red deer.”

“Are there monsters?”

“Of course.” He returned his gaze to her. “There are always monsters. Some of them even look like humans…. I ran away from home myself, you know.”

“You did?”

He nodded. “I was older than you, but yes. I ran, but I didn’t escape what I was running from…. Listen to me, Essie. I know you think leaving will make everything better, but—”

“There you are, Tornac of the Road,” said a sly, slithering voice that Murtagh recognized at once. Sarros.

The trader stepped forward from between the nearby tables. He was thin and stooped, with a patched cloak draped over his shoulders and ragged clothes underneath. Rings glittered on his fingers. He smelled of wet fur, and there was an unsettling, catlike slink to his steps.

Murtagh suppressed a curse. Of all the times for the man to show up…“Sarros. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“The reaches are dangerous these days,” said Sarros. He pulled out the empty chair from the table, shifted it until it was exactly between Essie and Murtagh, and sat facing them both.

The girl edged away in her seat, wary.

Murtagh glanced around the room. He spotted six men who had entered the inn while he wasn’t paying attention. They were rough-looking fellows, but not like the local fishermen; they wore furs and leathers and had cloaks wrapped about them in a way that told Murtagh they were concealing swords strapped to their belts.

Sarros’s guards. Murtagh was annoyed that he had lost track of his surroundings while talking with Essie. He knew better than that. A lapse in focus was a good way to end up dead or in prison.

By the bar, Sigling kept close watch on the newcomers. The innkeep pulled out a leather-wrapped truncheon and laid it next to his washcloth as a silent warning.

Despite Murtagh’s reservations as to Sigling’s character, he approved of his caution. The man was no fool, that was for sure.

His attention returned to Sarros as the trader pointed one long finger at Essie. “We have business to discuss. Send the youngling away.”

No, I don’t think so, decided Murtagh. He hadn’t finished talking with the girl, and in any case, keeping her around might have a civilizing influence on Sarros. The man was uncultured at best and downright offensive at worst.

“I have nothing to hide,” Murtagh said. “She can stay.” He glanced at her. “If you’re interested. You might learn something useful of the world by it.”

Essie shrank back in her chair, but she didn’t leave.

A long hiss sounded between Sarros’s teeth as he shook his head. “Foolish, Wanderer. Do as you wish, then. I’ll not argue, even if you put your foot crosswise.”

Murtagh let his gaze harden. “No, you won’t. Tell me, then, what have you found? It’s been three months, and—”

Sarros waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Three months. I told you; the reaches are dangerous. But I found word of what you seek. Better than word, I found this—” From the leather wallet on his belt, he produced a fist-sized chunk of black something that he thumped down on the table.

Murtagh leaned forward, as did Essie.

The something was a piece of rock, but there was a deep shine to it, as if a smoldering coal were buried in the center. A strong, sulfurous smell clung to the rock, as pungent as a rotting egg.

Essie sniffed and wrinkled her nose.