Murtagh

Sigling left the bar and staggered across the room to his wife and daughter. They didn’t say anything, but his wife put an arm around him, and he did the same to her.

A burbling laugh escaped Sarros. There was a wild note to his voice that reminded Murtagh of Galbatorix’s more demented moments. Sarros licked his sharpened teeth and said, “You do not know what you seek, Wanderer. You’re moon-addled and nose-blind. The sleeper stirs, and you and me—we’re all ants waiting to be crushed.”

“The stone,” said Murtagh from between clenched teeth. “Where?”

Sarros’s voice grew even higher, a mad shriek that pierced the night air. “You don’t understand. The Dreamers! The Dreamers! They get inside your head, and they twist your thoughts. Ahh! They twist them all out of joint.” He started to thrash, drumming his heels against the floor. Yellow foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. “They’ll come for you, Wanderer, and then you’ll see. They’ll…” His voice trailed off into a hoarse croak, and, with one final jerk, he fell still.

Disquiet wormed in Murtagh’s gut. The man shouldn’t have died. Magic or poison was at work here, and neither explanation was particularly appealing. In fact, the whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. He felt as if he’d been caught in an invisible snare, and he didn’t know who—or what—had set it.

For a moment, no one in the great room stirred.

Murtagh could feel eyes on him as he yanked the bird-skull amulet off Sarros’s neck, retrieved his cloak, and walked back to the table by the fire. He pocketed the stone with the inner shine, picked up his pouch of coins, and then paused, considering.

Bouncing the pouch in his hand, he went over to where Sigling and his wife stood shielding Essie. The girl looked terrified. Murtagh couldn’t blame her.

“Please…,” said Sigling.

“My apologies for the trouble,” said Murtagh. He could smell the stink of sweat on himself, and the front of his linen shirt was splattered with blood. “Here, this should make up for the mess.” He held out the pouch, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sigling accepted it.

The innkeep licked his lips. “The watch will be here any minute. If’n you leave out the back…you can make it t’ the gate before they see you.”

Murtagh nodded. Thoughtful of him.

Then he knelt and yanked the fork out of the head of the ruffian lying on the nearby boards. The girl shrank back as Murtagh looked at her. “Sometimes,” he said, “you have to stand and fight. Sometimes running away isn’t an option. Now do you understand?”

“Yes,” Essie whispered.

Murtagh shifted his attention to her parents. “One last question: Do you need the patronage of the masons’ guild to keep this inn open?”

Confusion furrowed Sigling’s brow. “No, not if it came to such. Why?”

“That’s what I thought,” said Murtagh. Then he presented Essie with the fork. It looked perfectly clean, without so much as a drop of blood on it. “I’m giving this to you. It has a spell on it to keep it from breaking. If Hjordis bothers you again, give her a good poke, and she’ll leave you alone.”

“Essie,” her mother said in a low, warning voice.

But Murtagh could see that the girl had already made her decision. She nodded in a firm manner and took the fork. “Thank you,” she said, solemn.

“All good weapons deserve a name,” said Murtagh. “Especially magical ones. What would you call this one?”

Essie thought for a second and then said, “Mister Stabby!”

Murtagh couldn’t help it; a broad smile split his face, and he laughed, a loud, hearty laugh. “Mister Stabby. I like it. Very apt. May Mister Stabby always bring you good fortune.”

And Essie smiled as well, if somewhat uncertainly.

Then the girl’s mother said, “Who…who are you, really?”

“Just another person looking for answers,” said Murtagh.

He was about to leave when, on a sudden impulse, he reached out and put a hand on the girl’s arm. He spoke the words of a healing spell, and the girl stiffened as the magic took effect, reshaping the scarred tissue on her arm.

Cold crept into Murtagh’s limbs, the spell extracting its price in energy, drawing off the strength of his body to make the change he willed.

“Leave her be!” said Sigling, and pulled Essie away, but the spell had already done its work, and Murtagh swept past them, cloak winged out behind him.

As he moved through the kitchen at the back of the inn, he heard Sigling and his wife utter sounds of astonishment, and then they and Essie started crying, but with joy, not grief.