Murtagh

“Assemble, my faithful children!” cried Bachel. “Bring us horses and water and wine and all the things needed for a hunt. Quickly!”

Dozens of grey-robed cultists and white-robed temple acolytes rushed about the courtyard as they sprang to obey. Alín approached carrying two braces of broad-bladed, short-handled spears, one set of which she handed to Bachel and the other to Murtagh.

Bachel tested the edges of her spears with her thumb and then pointed a spear at Murtagh, like an accusatory finger. “There is a condition to the hunt, Kingkiller.”

Of course. “And what would that be, my Lady?”

“No spells are to be used in the killing of the boars. They are sacred beasts, touched by the power of this place, and it would be disrespectful, as well as blasphemous, to do otherwise.”

Murtagh likewise tested the edges of his spears. They were tolerably sharp, but the metal seemed to be rather poor iron; they would bend after the first hard blow, and the edges wouldn’t stay sharp for more than a few strokes. Using them would be a challenge, as would forgoing magic.

He liked the idea.

“That seems eminently reasonable. I shall abide by your custom.”

She inclined her head. “The Dreamer will look kindly upon your efforts, my son.”

Then Murtagh gestured at her spears. “Do you mean to hunt as well, my Lady?”

A gleam appeared in Bachel’s eyes, and she hefted one of the spears with surprising ease. “Think you that I am incapable?”

Murtagh didn’t, but neither did he have a good measure of her. In a mild voice, he said, “Hunting boar takes great strength. I have never seen a woman attempt it.”

Bachel’s laugh echoed off the mountains, and crows cawed in response from the Tower of Flint. “A human woman, you mean to say. ’Tis good, then, that I am not wholly human. The blood of the elves runs in my veins. Though it may not be so thick as my mother’s, it is still thicker than that of the women of your kind.”

“Then I look forward to seeing your prowess upon the field of action.”

“And I yours, my son.”

***

As the cultists hurried to organize the hunting party, several of Bachel’s servants brought screens and held them about her while Alín and two other women attended her. When the screens were lowered, Murtagh saw Bachel no longer in her dress of red but now garbed like a man, with leather vambraces upon her forearms and chased riding boots that went to midthigh and a peaked helm divided by lines of bright rivets. The helm had a half mask to protect her eyes and nose, and an aventail of fine mail edged with rings of brass or bronze. It was a handsome look, Murtagh thought, for war or for sport.

From among the stone buildings came men leading a score of horses—short, hardy animals that were barely taller than ponies. Their coats were shaggier than those of any horse Murtagh had seen before, as if they were wearing their own knotted blankets for warmth in the long northern winters.

The cultists gave him a mare with a liver chestnut coat to ride. She was a far cry from the chargers he’d been trained on, but the animal seemed steady enough. He just hoped the mare’s nerve would hold during the hunt.

Before getting on the horse, he slipped off his cloak and tucked it into one of Thorn’s saddlebags. It would only hinder him when on foot.

As he climbed onto the mare, Thorn’s disapproval washed over him. It does not seem right to see you ride one of those hornless deer animals.

Horses. They’re called horses, and you know that.

But it sounds more insulting to call them hornless deer.

Murtagh glanced over. If Thorn were human, he would have sworn the dragon was smiling. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?

Thorn coughed in his chest. It is not every day I see a Rider riding a horse.

As the hunting party readied itself for departure, a realization came to Murtagh: Dogs…They don’t have any dogs. Now that he thought of it, the village was surprisingly quiet. There were no hounds baying, nor were there mutts yapping in the streets or scrapping over food. It was an odd thing. In all his years and all his travels, Murtagh had never before seen a human settlement without dogs.

Are dogs so important? Thorn asked.

They are. For the common man, having a dog is the closest thing to the bond you and I share.

Do you mean to compare dragons to dogs?

No, no. Not as such, only to say that the connection a human may share with a dog can—in part—resemble the connection that we have.