Murtagh

Murtagh made a face as he stepped on a shelf of brown mushroom and it dissolved into a slippery, foul-smelling liquid the color of night soil.

“Spread out,” commanded Bachel. Her warriors responded quickly, forming an arching line to either side of her. Grieve remained close by, which she seemed to expect.

Murtagh moved away from the group toward the eastern side of the valley. He wanted space to maneuver; hunting with strangers was always a dangerous proposition, and doubly so here. Besides, he knew from past boar hunts that having room to run was often the difference between success and injury or death.

“Where are you going, Kingkiller?” Bachel called out in a gay voice.

“I hunt better alone, Lady Bachel!” he answered in a like tone.

She flashed him a savage smile. The mushrooms appeared archaic—primitive predecessors of more finely finished plants—as if they’d endured from a time beyond recorded history, and Bachel seemed a part of that ancient remnant. “Only remember to control your tongue, Kingkiller. You must make your kill without magic.”

“Oh, that I shall,” he muttered. No matter how poor the metal used to make the spears they’d given him, Murtagh knew he could deliver at least one fatal blow apiece.

Step by measured step, they proceeded up the valley. Ahead of them, an occasional roar sounded as Thorn chased this boar or that. It wasn’t long before the dragon touched his mind again, and Murtagh found it full of blood and excitement and the hot thrill of the hunt.

The witch was right, said Thorn. The meat is good.

Murtagh laughed softly. That should be all the recommendation a butcher or cook needs. A dragon said, “The meat is good.”

Thorn roared with amusement.

Mushrooms crunched and squished and snapped beneath Murtagh’s boots with every step. The soft fungal bodies made it difficult to keep a steady footing. He was off any trail now, which wasn’t ideal for finding game, but it allowed him to keep his distance from Bachel’s group, a few hundred feet to his right.

His senses sharpened as he neared the edge of a dense stand of…he wasn’t sure what to call them. Mushroom trees? Their gnarled trunks were as broad as a horse’s chest and had scraps of cobweb-like membranes clinging to them. Please, no giant spiders, Murtagh thought. He would rather face a horde of Urgals barehanded.

The air was thick and moist and smelled fleshy and overheated, as if he were pressed close against an enormous, sweating armpit. He grimaced and moved forward with caution, eyes darting from shadow to shadow as he looked for any boars.

Would it be using magic to find the beasts with my mind?

He hadn’t meant the thought for Thorn, but the dragon answered all the same: Do you care about pleasing Bachel?

I care about keeping my word.

Murtagh decided to rely on only his eyes and ears for the time being. It made for an even more interesting challenge.

A chorus of squeals and grunts sounded across the field to his right. He dropped into a crouch as he spotted a cluster of seven or so hogs—boars and sows alike—run out from under the treelike mushrooms and charge Bachel and her line of warriors.

Bachel sank to one knee, planting the butt of her spear against the instep of her back foot and aiming the tip of the blade toward the oncoming beasts. Her warriors did the same, and she loosed a piercing cry that captured the attention of the lead boar and drew it toward her as metal to a lodestone.

Murtagh watched, momentarily breathless, as the animals closed the distance between them and the cultists, crashing through every mushroom in their way.

Some of the hogs bypassed the waiting cultists. But three—including the lead boar—plowed straight into the hunters, impaling themselves on the weapons. One of the warriors fell, and he screamed as a hog trampled him, gouts of blood spurting from the animal’s gored chest.

Bachel caught her prey on the point of her spear. The impact drove her back several inches. Then she dug in her heels, thrust hard, and forced the spear through the chest of the outraged boar. With a gleeful cry, she stood and lifted the boar upon her spear and then slammed the dying animal back down against the ground. It was a feat of astonishing strength. Even with the heightened abilities of a Rider, Murtagh knew he would have been unable to perform such an act without the help of magic.

Bachel planted a foot upon the back of the fallen boar, spread her arms and threw back her head and filled the valley with her triumphant ululation.

The sight and sound sent a savage thrill through Murtagh. The witch was as a wild beast, pure and fierce and terrifying. In that moment, she seemed more like a dragon than either human or elf.