Murtagh

As the villagers served the last course of the meal—molded aspic filled with nuts and berries—Murtagh gave Thorn a discreet look and said, This has gone on long enough. Be ready to fight or fly. If things go badly, don’t let Bachel get away.

Dark resolve colored Thorn’s thoughts. I am ready. And he loosened his wings in preparation. No one but Alín—who stood behind Bachel—seemed to notice.

Murtagh hoped the acolyte wouldn’t get in the way if words turned to violence. He gathered his will and then said, “Bachel, Thorn and I have decided: we no longer wish to wait through the night. Our patience is at an end. We would have our answers of you. Now. What is it the Draumar seek to accomplish? What is the future you have foreseen, and whom is it you serve? Who is the Dreamer of Dreams?”

The villagers playing on lyres never faltered, but he was aware of a sudden tension throughout the courtyard and of the weight of many eyes.

The witch paused with her cup halfway to her slanted mouth. Then she took her sip and placed the cup down most particularly. When she spoke, her voice cut like a sword: “You are very presumptuous, my son.”

“Very. And I no longer have any stomach for these endless mysteries. You are the Speaker. Speak plainly with me, then.”

She waved a hand. “Now is not the time to dwell upon such tiresome matters. It would ruin our enjoyment of this evening.”

“Then let it be ruined!” His voice rang out so loudly that the musicians stumbled over their strings before regaining their rhythm. “I insist.”

Rage flushed Bachel’s face. Behind her, Alín watched, wide-eyed and terrified. In a fearsome voice, the witch said, “You insist!” She threw off her cloak and stood, and the players finally fell silent. “You have no right to insist here, O my wayward child. The traditions of hospitality protect you, but even a guest may not insult me with impunity.”

“Guests or not, we will have our answers,” said Murtagh.

Behind him, Thorn growled slightly and rose into a crouch. The Draumar nearest him scrambled away, scattering plates and dishes and food across the courtyard and spilling dark runnels of wine that spread like seeping blood. Thorn said: Would you deny a dragon, witch?

In an instant, Bachel’s rage turned into equally cold contempt. “You would not understand my answers. Neither of you can. Not yet. Not so long as you are outlanders.”

“Bah! Another mealymouthed nothing.” From the pouch on his belt, Murtagh brought forth Saerlith’s clasp and cast it down upon the dais between him and Bachel. The metal rang as it struck stone. “Whom do you serve, witch? Were you an instrument of the Forsworn? Galbatorix? Or were they your foes?”

Bachel’s expression darkened as she beheld the clasp. “You have been meddling where you should not, Outlander.”

“And still, you will not answer. Whom do you serve? What is it you want?”

“Whom do I serve?” The witch’s voice gained in power, deepening so that her words echoed off the walls and hills. “I serve a power greater than you can imagine, Rider. I serve the Dreamer of Dreams, and I will not be questioned by the likes of you! Bow before my might and show your contrition!” Her final words arrived as a mighty blow, and the air shook loose dust and chips of stone that fell from the temple roof. A cloud of darkness gathered about her form as she lifted her arms and cried out with a wordless sound to the gloaming sky.

An attack Murtagh expected. But no attack came. Instead, he heard her cry roll the length of the valley, as a charge of cavalry rounding and repeating, and then the air went still, and the Draumar prostrated themselves with plaintive pleas. An instant later, the courtyard bucked beneath them, and all the valley seemed to heave and groan, and the very mountains shook. The granite peaks shed long slides of crusted snow, and consuming billows of white raced down the timbered flanks, and Bachel’s flock of crows screamed their murderous alarms within the Tower of Flint. Owls and eagles rose shrieking from the treetops, and animals of every sort yammered throughout the valley.

Thorn snarled as the ground moved. He sprang into the air, and the downblast from his wings only added to the confusion. The pulse of wind was so strong it forced Murtagh to squint until he could barely see.

Then the valley floor grew still again. The cries of the animals trailed off, with the last being the high-pitched yips of a fox.

Thorn drifted down and settled next to Murtagh. The dragon’s scales were raised, like the ruff on a frightened cat.

Moments later, dull thuds and thumps reached them from the mountaintops, as hammer blows of giants.