Murtagh

The grieving woman nodded, and though her tears did not cease, Murtagh heard her say, “Thank you, Mehtra.” And what surprised him was that she seemed to mean it.

Then Bachel turned her attention to the assembled villagers. “My children! Our dead need burying, that they may sleep, and dream, in peace. Come with me, that we may see it done and done rightly, and after we may celebrate their lives with this bounty the Dreamer has given us. Come! Let us—”

A clatter of iron and a bark of harsh orders—“Move! Forward!”—among the streets of the village interrupted her.

Bachel seemed unsurprised. “Make way!” she commanded, and the people did.

Murtagh and Thorn turned to look. What now? wondered Murtagh.

Four spear-carrying warriors drove a line of shackled prisoners into the courtyard. Murtagh counted quickly; there were twenty-one men and women bound in irons, disheveled, dirty-faced, and dull and listless as if they had already given up all hope of freedom. They were a mix of young and old, though none were children. By their clothes, Murtagh guessed the prisoners were commoners from somewhere near Ceunon. Taken off a ship, perhaps, or captured in a raid along the Bay of Fundor.

Thorn hissed and bared his teeth slightly. I know, Murtagh said.

With his heavy, lurching stride, Grieve went to the warriors guarding the prisoners. He spoke with them and then returned to his mistress’s side. “Your latest thralls, Speaker.”

“Thralls?” Murtagh said loudly, making no attempt to hide his outrage. He was not fond of serfdom or slavery or any sort of enforced bondage. One of the first changes Nasuada had made upon assuming the throne in Ilirea was outlawing such practices throughout her realm, a change Murtagh thoroughly approved of. Though he felt she had somewhat undercut the decree by requiring magicians to join Du Vrangr Gata or else have their abilities suppressed through herbs and potions.

Bachel gave the prisoners an appraising look. “Thralls soon to join us in our high and terrible cause.”

“You expect these sorry folk to swear loyalty to you?” said Murtagh.

Bachel arched an eyebrow. In her blood-spattered clothes, she had a fantastic aspect, as if she were a spirit of the forest given life and as dangerous as any wild beast. “All who serve our cause here in Nal Gorgoth serve willingly, my son. Even as you shall.”

“That…is difficult to believe.”

“And yet, so it is, my son. You must have faith.”

“How can I if I do not even know what your cause is?”

Inscrutable as ever, Bachel turned away. “Soon all shall be revealed, Kingkiller, but I warn you, you may find understanding more difficult than ignorance.” To the warriors guarding the prisoners, she said, “Take them away. I shall grant them audience later.” And then she returned to her fallen warriors and walked beside them as the cultists carried the bodies into the temple. With them went Rauden’s widow, clutching at her breast.

Murtagh watched them go, feeling helpless. He could not bring himself to intrude upon a funeral procession. So he stayed by Thorn and twisted Zar’roc’s hilt until the skin on his palm nearly tore.

***

Murtagh knew that he might have learned more about the Draumar from the rites attending the burial of their men, but for the present, he could no longer tolerate Bachel or the rest of the villagers. Instead, he said to Thorn, I need to move.

They left the courtyard, and Murtagh wandered with brisk steps through Nal Gorgoth. The village was eerily empty; all of the cultists were in the temple, and the only sounds of life came from the crows in the Tower of Flint and the livestock penned along the periphery of the village. As for the prisoners—the thralls—the warriors had marched them away from the temple and out of sight. Murtagh nearly used his mind to search for them but then decided to hold.

There would be time enough for that later.

Thorn trailed him, being careful not to scrape his scales against the sides of the buildings and destroy the aged carvings or knock loose one of the dragon-like sculptures.

Murtagh stopped and studied the sculptures. That they resembled dragons was undeniable, but it was equally certain that the creatures depicted differed in subtle ways that made them feel like a separate race. The spines along the heads were shorter than those of Thorn or Shruikan or Saphira, and the heads themselves were longer, bonier, and thinner across the beam of the brow. Perhaps the differences were a result of creative choices on the part of the artisans, but Murtagh doubted that; the sculptures were too carefully crafted—too closely observed—for such liberties or inaccuracies to make sense.

They look more like Fanghur, he said, naming the wind-serpents, the small, dragon-like creatures known to live in the Beor Mountains.

The little worms never flew so far north, said Thorn. Not if Yngmar’s memories are to be trusted.