Murtagh

The fire flared higher, and he continued with his memories. It wasn’t long before he arrived at his confrontation with Arven, Esvar, and the rest of the guards, and Thorn tasted his regret at the outcome of the fight.

Dry grass and the stems of withered thistles snapped under Thorn’s feet as he moved over and nuzzled his shoulder. You did what you had to. No one died. Tormenting yourself won’t help.

Nothing in life is easy, said Murtagh with his thoughts, for the sound of his voice seemed unbearably harsh.

Why should it be? Life is a fight from start to finish.

A grim smile crossed Murtagh’s mouth, and he patted Thorn. And it’s better to win than to lose. The crimson fire in Thorn’s eyes deepened. They understood each other.

Murtagh resumed his review, and at the end of it, he said, “I want to find this witch-woman Bachel even more than before. And I want to know what these Dreamers are about.” He smashed two more turnips with the rock he was holding. He wished he’d managed to find a knife to replace his dagger before leaving Gil’ead. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s more dire than I feared.”

Thorn hissed, and his tongue darted out between his scaled jaws. And you still don’t wish to warn Eragon or Arya?

Murtagh dropped the smashed turnips into the pot hung over the campfire. The thought of begging Eragon for help made him want to spit. Especially since he knew Eragon would help. That was the worst of it. “If Nasuada wants to inform them of the situation, that’s her prerogative. However, it would take too long for either of them to join us, and in any case…I want to deal with this ourselves. If we can. Blast it, we don’t even know what’s actually going on! Until we do, I say we stay the course.”

A sense of agreement emanated from Thorn. Then a low cough sounded in his chest, and his tongue lolled from between his jaws.

“What?” Murtagh asked.

The dragon showed both rows of teeth. A thought occurred to me. Carabel did you a greater favor than you realize.

“How do you figure?”

She saved you from having to treat with Ilenna. A great boon, that.

Murtagh stared at him for a second and then started to chuckle. With a wry twist of his head, he said, “You might have a point….” Then he grew grim again as he looked into the flickering flames.

What is it?

He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the fire. “I just wish I’d known to include something about Lyreth and his kind in my letter. I’m sure Nasuada suspects they’re working against her, but forewarned is forearmed.”

Could you use a spell to warn her?

Murtagh scrubbed the dirt with his boot, pensive. “Probably not. Urû’b— Ilirea is too far away for magic, easy magic that is, and Nasuada is sure to have wards protecting her against such intrusions. I could hire a courier, but I wouldn’t trust a stranger with this information.”

Thorn touched his shoulder again, and Murtagh forced a small smile. He scratched Thorn’s cheek, and the dragon huffed. We head north, then?

He nodded. “Back to the Bay of Fundor. We’ll follow the Spine up along the coast until we find the village Carabel spoke of.”

And then?

Murtagh pounded another turnip with the rock. “And then we’ll see what Bachel has to say for herself.”

***

Despite his extreme exhaustion, Murtagh found it difficult to sleep that night. His mind kept gnawing over the events of the past few days. Again and again he relived their escape from Gil’ead, and he questioned what he could have done to avoid such a disastrous outcome. Images of Esvar and the field of drowned soldiers continued to bedevil him, and the faces of Silna and the two brothers from the Rusty Anchor rose up before him. The center of his brow burned, and he thought too of Essie and of the stone room beneath the barracks and the rank smell of fear.

When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of empty castles and locked doors and footsteps chasing him down endless corridors. And he heard his father’s voice echo overhead with dreadful intent, followed by a remembered touch upon his cheek, soft and loving, and his mother saying, “Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.”

Then visions of battle filled his slumbering mind: Glaedr and Oromis over Gil’ead, swords clashing upon the Burning Plains, soldiers dying at his command, banners and pennants whipping in the wind, the smell of blood and fire, and water in his nose and throat choking him as he struggled with Muckmaw.