Murtagh

The shard flew faster than his eye could follow. With a thup, it struck the doe between her eyes. Her head snapped back, and the animal collapsed, hind legs kicking.

The rest of the herd fled.

Murtagh walked to the fallen animal. By the time he arrived, the doe had gone limp and still.

He looked at the deer, contemplating what he had done. The animal’s eyes were still open, and they were beautiful: round and glassy and gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Then he grabbed the deer by its legs, slung it over his shoulders, and started the long walk back to Thorn.

As he strode across the grassy plain, the weight of the animal warm and heavy around his neck, Murtagh again saw the stone cell where Galbatorix had kept Thorn imprisoned. The chamber had been long but narrow, with murder holes cut in the ceiling. Too large and cold and unfriendly of a place for a hatchling, but there Galbatorix had placed Thorn all the same and anchored him to the floor with chains of iron. Small ones at first, to match Thorn’s size, but bigger and bigger ones thereafter, until the links were as thick about as a man’s torso and too weighty in their combined mass for even a dragon many times Thorn’s age to lift. Whenever he moved, the chains made a harsh and horrible sound. Many a night Murtagh had lain awake in his own cell, listening for the distinctive clink.

At first his heart ached for Thorn’s isolation. It was a cruel thing to put a small creature into such a hostile place, and he could not comfort Thorn with his thoughts, for the king and his servants kept them under constant mental watch (and ofttimes outright assault). But the space was not overly large for long. Thorn’s magically augmented growth meant the cell soon became cramped, and the walls kept him from spreading his wings, and the bony knuckles on the fingers that extended through his flight membranes rubbed raw against the rough stones.

Then Murtagh felt for Thorn’s confinement more than his isolation. He often heard him throwing himself against the walls and chains in a futile attempt to escape, panicked thrashings punctuated by roars and growls that turned to pained whines when the guards came and jabbed spears through the murder holes or else dumped buckets of slop onto Thorn’s sides, forcing him to lick the leavings off his scales.

It was no way to keep an adult dragon, much less a hatchling. A child by any measure. To spend the first few months of your life in such a fashion…

Murtagh clenched his jaw and quickened his pace as a familiar rage flared within him. At times, he fantasized about finding a spell that would let him bring Galbatorix back to life so that he could kill him again. But not by imposing understanding. With the sharp edge of his sword so that the man might feel the full, agonizing force of Murtagh’s fury.

But it would not be enough. For revenge could not fix what the king had broken.

As Thorn had grown, he had become increasingly reluctant to return to his cell whenever Galbatorix saw fit to release him. So much so that Thorn would break into frantic, frenzied fits at the sight of the guards. He would whip his tail and snap and claw and make every attempt to escape. The sight was inspiring at first but then piteous when the king would, with a few words, reduce the dragon to a cowering heap mewling in pain.

Yet the punishment was not enough to overcome Thorn’s dread of close spaces, and day by day, his aversion became ever deeper until it was an instinctual reaction.

Murtagh had only realized the full extent of the problem after Galbatorix posted them to Dras-Leona during the war and Thorn grew frightened while walking amid the city’s narrow streets. The dragon had destroyed four houses and wounded several soldiers in his sudden effort to win free.

Murtagh had hoped that their travels might help, that by avoiding cities and towns and keeping to open places, Thorn’s fear would abate. And perhaps it still would, but it was going to be a slow process. If even it were possible.

He shuddered and looked to the sky for strength. He wished things had been different. But the past couldn’t be changed, and the hurts they had suffered would be a part of them forevermore.

***

Thorn lifted his head as Murtagh trudged up the hill and dropped the deer onto the ground in front of him.

Thorn sniffed the carcass. Thank you.

“Of course. Eat.”

Murtagh went to the saddlebags and retrieved a waterskin. He drank and watched as Thorn seized the doe, ripped it apart, and swallowed each piece nearly without chewing.

Going to Ilirea and Nasuada was out of the question now. Admitting as much pained Murtagh, but after Thorn’s razing of Gil’ead, he couldn’t see how Nasuada could accept them into her court. Popular opinion would force her to deal with them harshly, and while Murtagh would have submitted to whatever punishment she deemed appropriate, he wasn’t willing to subject Thorn to possible confinement. Or worse.