Murtagh

Wait to see what magic the witch can work. If she cannot heal the man, then offer to help.

A good idea.

Quickening his pace, Murtagh drew abreast of Bachel and gestured at the dead boars ahead of them. “You made a heroic kill, Lady Bachel.”

She hardly seemed to react to the praise, as if it were merely her apportioned due. “It was of a kind with all my kills, Rider.”

Of that, Murtagh was convinced.

As they approached the churned mess of blood and crushed mushrooms in the center of the field, it became evident that the two warriors who lay motionless on the ground were already dead.

Bachel knelt by the man who still breathed. His jerkin draped inward along the great divot in his chest where his ribs were broken. Bloody slaver coated his chin, and his breathing was hitched and shallow. A punctured lung, Murtagh guessed, if not worse.

With a gentle hand, Bachel smoothed the man’s brow. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and in his gaze, Murtagh saw utter devotion.

“Shh,” said Bachel, her voice calm and vast as a windless ocean. “Be of good heart, Rauden. You have served well.”

The man nodded. Tears filled his eyes, and with enormous depth of feeling, he whispered, “Mehtra.”

Affection softened Bachel’s face, and she bent close to him. “Sehtra.” Then, with a smooth, quick motion, she drew her black-bladed dagger, placed it under the man’s chin, and shoved it into his head. He convulsed and went limp.

“Shade’s blood!” Murtagh swore, and started forward. Around them, the warriors raised their spears. “I could have healed him!”

Bachel withdrew her dagger and wiped it clean on the man’s shirt. “He was beyond healing, my son.”

“Not for me! You should have let me try!”

Bachel rose and turned to face Murtagh. Her expression was fierce and terrible but also sorrowful. “Do not think to question me, Rider! You do not know our ways! We seek to serve the Dreamer however we can, each and every one of us, and when our time is come, we yearn to return to He who dreams us. It is our greatest desire.”

“Yes, but—”

“The matter is closed, Murtagh son of Morzan. Enough!”

Disapproval pinched Murtagh’s features, and he set his jaw. As if by magic, Bachel seemed to transform before him; he saw cruelty in her features now and the stubbornness of deluded certainty. And he wondered at his own credulity. Then cold settled in his gut as he became aware of the potential danger of the situation and all emotion abandoned him, leaving him a hollow shell. He affected the same bland, noncommittal aspect that had served him so well at court. “Of course, my Lady. My apologies.”

Bachel inclined her head and then turned back to the dead man and placed a hand upon his brow. She murmured something and closed the man’s blank, unseeing eyes.

The witch was silent for a moment, her features inscrutable. Then: “Grieve, see to it that our kills are collected and our fallen too. Bring them to Nal Gorgoth, that we may feast upon our triumph.”

“Speaker.”

Bachel nodded and strode forth from the bodies and broken mushrooms toward the horses.

Murtagh watched her go. Then he looked at Grieve, who was directing the warriors to gut and truss the boars. “What does mehtra mean?”

Grieve gave him a sullen glare and bent to help another man with a boar. “It means mother, Outlander. For Bachel is as our mother in all things, and we trust her as such.”

“And sehtra?”

“Son.”

In a daze, Murtagh walked to Thorn. She’s as ruthless as Galbatorix.

The dragon agreed. And yet her people still care for her.

Rauden called her mother even knowing she was about to kill him. Galbatorix never inspired such love. Only fear.

For a moment, Murtagh debated following Bachel and riding back upon the liver chestnut mare. But he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Not right then.

He turned to Thorn. “No more horses.” And he reached for the stirrup hanging down Thorn’s left side.

The dragon crouched lower so that Murtagh could catch the loop of boiled leather and pull himself up onto Thorn’s back. Good.

“Can you bring my boar? I would rather not wait on B—”

The name was still in his mouth when Thorn lurched up to his full standing height, startling the warriors, who leapt away. Light as a cat, Thorn padded over to where Murtagh had made his kill.

With one foot, Thorn scooped up the hog’s bloody carcass. Then he jumped skyward and flew away from the field of slaughter.

CHAPTER IX Breaking Point

I’m sorry for scaring you. The boar caught me by surprise.

A deep huff emanated from Thorn as he climbed over the flank of a mountain, heading back toward Nal Gorgoth. You should be more careful.