Murtagh

He smiled faintly. Had he really expected to visit Ceunon without getting wound up in some form of trouble? Oh well. So it was.

Then Murtagh gathered his mental reserves, focused his will, and poured his fierce intent into a single line of words drawn from the ancient language—the language of truth and power and magic.

“Thrífa sem knífr un huildr sem konr.”

The air between them seemed to shiver. That and nothing more.

Murtagh blinked, caught by surprise. The spell had failed. The trader had wards protecting him? And strong ones too, for the strength of the spell would have cut through any lesser charm. It was an unexpected and entirely unwelcome development.

Sarros chuckled again. “Foolish. Very foolish.” With his free hand, he pulled a bird-skull amulet from under his jerkin. “Do you see this, Wanderer? The witch-woman Bachel charmed a necklace for each of us. Your weirding ways won’t help you now. We’re protected against all evilness.”

“Is that so?” said Murtagh, deadly quiet. The trader had just gone from a nuisance to a genuine danger. Moderation was no longer a desirable option. Not if one wanted to win, and Murtagh had long since decided that he was willing to go to the furthest extremes in order to avoid—again—losing.

Then he spoke the Word, and such a word it was. It rang like a bell, and in the sound were contained all possible meanings, for it was the most powerful word of all: the name of the ancient language. The Name of Names. The most secret of all spells, known only to him, Eragon, and Arya. With it he could break or alter any spell. With it he could change the very meaning of the language itself.

In the Name of Names, he imbued three intents: a desire to remove Sarros’s wards, a wish to seize and hold the man’s knife, and, last of all, a command to prohibit the people who heard the Word from remembering it.

A dull silence followed. Everyone in the common room looked at him, many of the guests with a dazed expression, as if they’d just woken from a dream.

Essie stared wide-eyed, fear seemingly forgotten.

To Murtagh’s astonishment, Sarros appeared entirely unaffected. Concern chilled his core. The only way to defy the Name of Names was with wordless magic—magic cast without the guiding safety of the ancient language. It was the riskiest and wildest form of spellcasting. Even the most skilled of enchanters would shy from attempting it.

Murtagh had underestimated Sarros and whomever the man had dealings with. The situation had become dangerously unpredictable. And Murtagh didn’t like unpredictable.

“Essie!” cried Sigling, finally noticing her plight. He grabbed his truncheon and sprang over the bar with more alacrity than Murtagh would have given the balding innkeep credit for. “You let her go now!”

Before Sigling could take more than a step, two of the fur-clad ruffians charged and knocked him to the floor. A thunk sounded as one of them struck Sigling on the head with the pommel of a sword.

He moaned and dropped the truncheon.

No one else dared move.

That’s enough of that, thought Murtagh.

“Papa!” Essie cried, and she squirmed beneath Sarros’s knife.

The trader chuckled again, louder than before. “Your tricks will not help you, Wanderer. No enchantments are as strong as Bachel’s. No magic is as deep.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Murtagh’s voice was calm as a windless pond. He picked up the fork and turned it between his fingers. “Well then. It appears I have no choice in the matter.”

“None whatsoever,” said Sarros, smug.

A stout, red-cheeked woman with her hair tied in a bun appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her skirt. “What is all this—” she started to say, and then saw Sarros holding the knife and Sigling lying on the floor, and her face went pale.

“Don’t cause no trouble, or your man gets stuck,” said one of the fur-clad men, pointing his blade at Sigling.

While everyone was distracted by Sigling’s wife, Murtagh spoke without voice, and he said, “Halfa utan thornessa fra jierda.” A glassy, flame-like ripple ran the length of the fork.

Essie’s eyes widened, but she didn’t otherwise react.

Sarros slapped the table. “Enough with the yapping. Your coin, now.”

Murtagh tipped his head and, with his left hand, again reached under his cloak. He kept himself relaxed until the last possible instant.

In a single motion, he swept the cloak through the air while striking with the fork. He caught Sarros’s knife between the tines and used the fork to toss the knife across the room.

Ting! The knife bounced against the wall.

Sarros blinked and froze as Murtagh pressed the points of the fork against the fleshy underside of the man’s chin. The shark-toothed man swallowed, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his face, but his hand remained next to the girl’s neck, fingers spread wide as if to tear out her throat.