Murtagh

Shall I answer them? Thorn asked.

“If you want,” said Murtagh with a smile.

Then Thorn raised his head and made a passable imitation of a wolf howl, only far louder, and far more menacing.

The pack yipped with fear, and thereafter ran in silence.

Murtagh laughed and patted Thorn.

It is good for them to know they are not the only hunters about, said Thorn, self-satisfied.

Despite an annoying side wind, they arrived at the edge of the plains late that morning, and the land rose into foothills and then the steep heights of the Spine. A dusting of snow extended halfway down the sides of the mountains, and the pinetrees glittered as if strewn with diamonds.

A band of silver water lay athwart their path, and Murtagh knew it for the Anora River, which flowed northward to the Bay of Fundor. He directed Thorn to follow the river upstream, deeper into the mountains.

Thorn did so without question; the dragon was as curious as Murtagh.

The Anora led them to a pinched mountain pass that stood at the mouth of a long, deep-set valley. Atop the mountain to the left of the pass was a ruined watchtower built in the elven style, with no path or road that led to its dark walls, and Murtagh knew it and spoke its name in the ancient language: Ristvak’baen, or Place of Sorrow. He felt both sorrow and revulsion, for it was there, in that tower, that Galbatorix had slain Vrael, leader of the Riders, following the great battle on Vroengard Island. That event, more than any, had marked the Riders’ downfall.

Galbatorix had bragged of the fight more than once. Murtagh could see him still, sprawled across the fur-draped chair in his banquet hall, his harsh, eagle-like features lit by the flames from the long fireplace set within one wall, eyes burning with unsavory delight as he recounted how he had felled Vrael with a kick betwixt the legs.

An urge came over Murtagh, and before he could speak it, Thorn responded, banking leftward and spiraling down to a flat rooftop alongside the ruined tower.

The presence of the rooftop was most convenient, Murtagh thought. Then he felt foolish. The tower had been built by and for Dragon Riders. Of course it would have a place for a dragon to land.

Stone scraped under Thorn’s talons as he settled onto Ristvak’baen. Murtagh hoped the structure was still sound. It had held for over a hundred years; surely it could hold a few minutes more.

He dismounted, and he and Thorn looked up at the crumbling tower. A human-sized archway pierced the outer wall of the building and led to a small courtyard.

Murtagh walked through.

Patches of moss and lichen mottled the stones of the courtyard, while tufts of dead grass poked up between the joins. A stunted juniper grew from a crack in the wall higher up, its trunk a withered twist of creviced wood, and a desolate wind shook the branches. Snow clung to the corners of the yard where shadows shielded it from direct light. A single doorway gaped in the side of the tower, hinges warped, broken, rusted black.

A circle of twelve brass sockets lay embedded within the stones in the center of the yard. The sockets were each the size of a fist and as eyeless and empty as a skull. Waxy verdigris colored them green. What they had once held, Murtagh could not guess.

Behind him, Thorn hesitated and then, with a soft growl, crouched low to the rooftop and stuck his head and neck into the courtyard. His whole body was tense with strain—his lips wrinkled to show teeth—but he didn’t retreat. Murtagh counted that as a small improvement.

He continued to study the yard. No evidence remained of the fight between Galbatorix and Vrael. The place was cold and empty, devoid of all comfort, and the rattle of dry branches reminded him of a rattle of bones.

Thorn scented the air. It is strange to think how much turned upon their meeting here.

Heat poured through Murtagh’s limbs, like a flood of molten wax. His jaw clenched, and his fists also, and tears dripped from his unblinking eyes. The surge of emotion was so sudden, so strong and unexpected, he shouted from surprise. Then he shouted again out of sheer blind rage.

Thorn flinched, but Murtagh didn’t care.

He howled at the empty sky. Howled and screamed until his voice broke and blood slicked the back of his throat. The paving stones bruised his knees as he fell forward and hung his head like a whipped dog.

With one gloved fist, he pounded at the stones of the courtyard. Sharp pains lanced the bone in the heel of his palm, and great hollow booms echoed through the tower, as if his fist were a mallet made of iron.

A growl tore his throat, and he slapped his palm flat against the stones. “Jierda!”

With a deafening report, cracks spiderwebbed out from his hand and split the paving stones throughout the yard. Ribbons of dust drifted up from the exposed rock faces, and one of the brass sockets fell free of its setting.