Murtagh

Zar’roc was in Murtagh’s right hand, and his shield in the other, and Thorn stood beside him. They roared together and strode forth into maddened conflict. And Murtagh swung his sword with abandon, and he felt the familiar shock of impact as the blade sliced through flesh and bone, and his foes fell before him. A wall of rippling flame shot out ahead of him as Thorn sprayed the collected warriors with liquid fire. The smell of burnt hair and crisping skin filled the air, and the combatants screamed as they cooked in their armor.

Murtagh continued forward, Zar’roc lighter in his hand than ever before. And he killed, and he killed, and with each kill, he felt growing power.

A cloud of crows wheeled above the battlefield, and in the distance, hidden by the smoke but in presence felt, Bachel watched. And Murtagh knew she watched with approval.

CHAPTER V Recitations of Faith

The sound of bells woke Murtagh, a high, brassy clang that bounced off the mountains and set the crows in the Tower of Flint to cawing.

He blinked, instantly alert, and reached for Zar’roc. The familiar feel of the wire-wrapped hilt comforted him.

Grey light pervaded the bedroom. It seemed well into morning, but because of the high mountains, the sun had yet to rise.

Murtagh searched for Thorn’s mind…and found the dragon already awake in the courtyard below.

They shared a moment of closeness, and Thorn said, You dreamt as I did.

It wasn’t a question, but Murtagh answered all the same. Yes. I…I’ve never had an experience like that before.

He could feel Thorn shifting in place. The visions were like those HE showed us, during the dark time.

Murtagh suppressed a shiver. Of all the many tortures Galbatorix had inflicted upon them, Murtagh had hated those most of all. The king would, at his whim, flood their minds with false images that served to confuse the senses and make it difficult to resist his will.

Yes, he said. But different too. They were more real than real. He sat and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stared at the wall for a moment, and then rubbed his face in a futile attempt to dispel the memories of the night.

Umaroth was right. This is not a good place, said Thorn. We should not linger any longer than necessary.

Maybe not, but I want to hear what Bachel has to say for herself today. She owes us an explanation. Several explanations.

Murtagh went to the washroom and splashed his face with the last bit of water remaining in the jug. Were the ill humors that suffused Nal Gorgoth enough to explain their dreams? Or was there another force at work? Unlike with Galbatorix’s coercions, Murtagh hadn’t felt any mind touching theirs during the night. The dreams seemed to have arisen unbidden from the deepest burrows of their consciousness.

Thorn snorted. Those were no dreams of mine.

No. Murtagh well knew what Thorn dreamt of: flights and fights and their time spent imprisoned at Urû’baen.

Though it made him nervous to do so, Murtagh used the word kverst to remove the stubble from his face. It fell from his skin as a shedding of black dust. He ran a hand across his chin, satisfied. He did not want to appear anything less than perfectly presentable before Bachel.

Then he dried his face and belted on Zar’roc and tucked Saerlith’s clasp into his belt.

As he started toward the door, a knock sounded, and a woman said, “May I enter, Kingkiller?”

Murtagh bridled at the title. Though the Dreamers seemed to use it as a sign of respect, it sat badly with him. “You may.”

The door swung inward to reveal Alín, the young woman who had attended him and Bachel during the feast. As before, she wore a white robe, unlike the rest of the villagers. A tray with food rested in her hands.