Murtagh

“You might be right.” He shivered and rubbed his arms, trying to coax warmth back into his limbs. “When I was on the ground, I saw…I saw a vision. An evil one.”

Bachel’s expression grew intense, and she stepped forward and grasped his shoulder with her free hand. Surprised, he resisted the urge to knock her hand away. The witch’s grip was like heated iron. “A vision,” she said, her voice low and forceful. “Describe it to me, my son. Quickly now, before your memory fades. It is important.”

Annoyed but also curious, Murtagh complied, speaking in swift, short sentences, eager to force the words out so he could stop thinking about the black sun and the impossibly large dragon….

Grieve and the warriors listened with close attention, and they murmured with what seemed to be either awe or reverence as he described the dragon.

“Ah,” said Bachel. “You are indeed fortunate.” She released him and circled her hand above her head, indicating both the small side valley and the cleft that contained Nal Gorgoth. “All who come here dream, but few there are who receive such clear portents, and those who do often become Speakers themselves.”

“Have there been many Speakers?” asked Murtagh.

“My Lady,” said Grieve in a tense voice. “It is not right for an outsider to kn—”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Bachel. “Our guest is no ordinary person. Indeed not.” A disapproving scowl settled on Grieve’s seamed face, and he pulled at the cuff of his blood-splattered robe in a nervous, angry manner, as if what he really wanted to do was wrap his thick fingers around Murtagh’s neck.

In a grand voice, the witch said, “There have been many Speakers—some false, some true—through the ages. We are Du Eld Draumar, and we have lived in these places of power since before elves were elves. We were known to the Grey Folk themselves…known and feared.”

Murtagh translated in his head. Du Eld Draumar was a fancy way of saying The Old Dreamers, but as it was cast in the ancient language, the name held more truth than it would have in any other tongue. “I believe you,” he said, and he meant it. Although he doubted Bachel would give him a straightforward answer, he asked, “What, in your judgment, does the vision mean, O Speaker?”

“It is a gift. The exhalations of this land have shown you a vision of the sacred mystery that lies at the heart of our creed. What you saw, Kingkiller, is a portion of what may yet be.”

“As a warning?”

She surprised him by taking his hand and pressing it flat against his chest, over his heart. Her fingers were sticky with blood. And she answered in a low, serious tone with no hint of anything but utter sincerity. “As a promise.” Then she let go.

A hot-cold touch of his dream-born fear gripped Murtagh. He shrank in on himself and found he had lost his taste for further questions.

She lies, said Thorn.

If she does, she believes the lie.

Murtagh looked back at the warriors and counted. Two more were missing. Through the mushroom trees Thorn had knocked over, the open field was visible. In the center of it lay several lifeless hogs, as well as the three downed warriors. One of the men was still moving, albeit feebly. Splattered blood, human and animal alike, stained the mushroom caps in a reddened ring.

“The beasts have cost us,” said Murtagh.

Bachel nodded in a serious manner, though she seemed neither sad nor upset, but rather prideful. “My men have served well today, Kingkiller, and those who fell, fell in service of our faith. Their sacrifice will not go unforgotten or unrewarded.”

The warriors bowed their heads and, as one, said, “As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”

At that, Murtagh thought Bachel would attend to her wounded, or at least dispatch some men to do so. Instead, she gestured at the boar he had slain. “You have taken a fine beast, Kingkiller. I expected nothing less.”

In death, the boar seemed smaller, though still imposing; it must have been equal in weight to several large men. His spear projected from the center of the animal’s chest, the haft a broken splinter.

With a bow and an extended hand, as if requesting a dance at court, Murtagh said, “And without the aid of the slightest charm or spell, my Lady.”

“So I saw,” Bachel replied. “But were it not for our help, would you have lived? Does such a victory count as a victory in truth?”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. He did not feel like bandying words, but he could not allow her challenge to pass uncontested. “I killed the boar, my Lady, and dead he would have been no matter what happened to me. As that was my goal, yes, I would count it a victory.”

A small smile touched Bachel’s lips. “A fair point, my son.” In the open field, the wounded man let out an agonized groan. The sound drew her attention, and she turned from Murtagh. “Come,” she said, and strode toward the field.

The command annoyed Murtagh, but he followed nonetheless. Should I offer to heal him? he asked Thorn.