Murtagh

The men’s eyes bulged with anger, outrage, and horror, and their faces turned purple as the blood congested beneath their skin. They were courageous, though. Murtagh would give them that. Five of the men charged him, while one turned to run into the main part of the village and one ran toward the entrance of the temple.

Thorn reached out with a forefoot and slapped the village-bound warrior to the ground. He did not rise.

Murtagh darted sideways and slammed his shoulder into the man running for the temple. The warrior stumbled and fell.

The five other men closed upon Murtagh. A clumsy jab of a spear glanced off his wards, and then he managed to retreat and put the ruined fountain between him and his pursuers.

The warriors tried to follow. But they were out of air. One after another, they collapsed, faces mottled and discolored, veins standing proud along their corded necks.

Then all was quiet, save for the kicking of their feet on the flagstones.

Murtagh hurried to Thorn and checked that the saddle straps were secure. He hadn’t removed the dragon’s tack the whole time they’d been in Nal Gorgoth, nor had Thorn asked him to. “There’s no helping it now,” said Murtagh in a low voice.

We should leave before anyone notices.

“First the cave.” Thorn snorted in disapproval, and Murtagh gave him a look. “It’s our only chance to find out what’s in there.”

The dragon growled deep in his chest. Fine, but I will be glad to be gone from this place.

“That makes two of us.”

The last of the warriors went limp and lifeless as Murtagh tightened his sword belt and fetched his cloak from the saddlebags. He debated donning his mail. The armor would have been a comfort—if only a small one—but even with a slight layer of muffling rust on the iron rings, he feared the shirt would make too much noise.

With Thorn a stealthy companion at his back—or as stealthy as a dragon his size could be—Murtagh slipped around the northeastern corner of the temple and headed across the swath of cropped turf to the grove of pinetrees. At the mouth of the grove, Murtagh paused to search with his thoughts. Finding no one ahead of them, he whispered, “Brisingr,” and set a faint red werelight burning in the air above.

The arcane fire lit the way as they proceeded along the path that wound among the dark-shadowed pines. Gloom and murk pressed in from all sides, as if the only piece of reality that existed was the small circle of earth the werelight painted red.

Thorn shivered with discomfort and kept his head and tail low to avoid the branches.

Beneath the pines, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs and mushrooms, as well as the ever-present stench of brimstone. Murtagh felt as if they were in a healer’s storehouse, and he wondered at the uses of the plants.

At the gaping cavern set within the base of the foothills, Murtagh saw a stain of fresh blood atop the altar to the left of the opening. In the werelight’s ruby radiance, the mark was black as ink, and the sight of it filled Murtagh with an apprehension of evil.

He loosened Zar’roc in its sheath and continued forward.

Twenty feet into the cavern, he heard Thorn’s footsteps falter behind him. He looked back to see the dragon pressed flat against the ground, wings tight against his body, upper lip wrinkled in a fearful snarl.

Murtagh glanced at the arched ceiling of stone high above. “Even here?” he said in a quiet voice. He had thought there was enough room that Thorn would not feel threatened.

The dragon growled equally softly. I am sorry.

“Your wings don’t even touch the walls. You can still fight if you need, and if we have to flee, there’s space for you to turn ar—”

No. I…Thorn put a paw forward, and then trembled violently and pulled it back. He blinked, and a glistening film coated his eyes, bright in its reflection of the werelight. I want, but I cannot.

Murtagh returned to him and put his arms around Thorn’s neck. For a moment, they stood like that, and the heat from Thorn’s scales warmed Murtagh’s chest through his thin linen shirt.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “Stay here. I’ll be quick, and then we can be gone.”

Thorn hummed, appearing abashed. I wish I were not so faulted.

A rush of sorrow, compassion, and regret overwhelmed Murtagh. Opening his mind more fully, he said, My hurts are different from yours, but I am as faulted as you, if not more. You know.

I know.

No one is perfect. No one makes it through life whole and unscathed. So do not blame yourself for what is out of your control. We are here, and we have each other. That is what is important.