Murtagh

Frustrated, Murtagh studied the fields around him. There. A small stand of willows near a bowl-like depression filled with lush grass, cattails, and a few crabapple trees heavy with their sour fruit.

He glanced at the road to make sure it was clear, and then trotted over to the stand of willows. There were midges and biting flies flitting about the grass, and his boots sank into marshy ground, but Murtagh was willing to put up with the annoyance in order to have some cover.

A fly bit his neck, and he slapped it away.

He wedged himself into the willows in an angled position that would keep him from falling onto the wet ground. Then, from the purse on his belt, he took some dried apple and a piece of cold bacon and chewed them slowly, savoring every bite. It was all the food he was going to get for a while.

He was thirsty too, but he didn’t want to drink whatever stagnant water he could find in the depression. That was a good way to end up bent over sick for the next few days.

There has to be a way to make water safe with a spell. He remembered something of the like from Yngmar’s memories, but the details had been vague.

Still thinking on it, he crossed his arms over the staff, pulled his hood over his face, and closed his eyes.

The hum of busy insects soon lulled him to sleep.

***

Soft flesh fumbling at his skin, teeth scraping, unwelcome wetness along his hand, then a flare of yellow pain bright enough to make him yelp.

Murtagh jolted awake, shouting, wild-eyed. He thrashed with the staff, hoping to knock back whatever was hurting him.

A bony, dolorous face hung before him. Sideways pupils rimmed with dirty gold, cruel, inhuman; a profusion of black and white bristles; grasping lips searching like blind worms for food; splayed, flat-topped teeth yellowed around the bases, grinding, gnashing, snapping only inches from his cheek; breath like a putrid pond.

Murtagh recoiled. The face was a terrifying, uncaring hunger set to devour the world.

The yellowed teeth closed on his hand again, hard and painful. Repulsed, Murtagh reacted without thinking and shouted, “Thrysta!” while funneling his strength into the spell.

A full-body blow knocked him against a willow trunk as the creature in front of him went tumbling through the air with an outraged bray.

The animal landed several paces away and scrambled to its feet.

A goat. It was nothing more than a goat.

Murtagh blinked, still disoriented. He worked his mouth, tongue thick and dry, and looked around. No one else was in sight. He and the goat were alone in the shadowed depression.

The goat shook itself and gave Murtagh an angry, disapproving look. It lowered its head and scraped the marshy ground with a front hoof, as if preparing to charge.

“Letta,” Murtagh said with a note of finality. The word wasn’t a spell as such, but it contained the authority of the ancient language, and the goat—like all animals—understood the intent behind the command and stopped.

The goat pulled back its neck and shook its head as if a wasp had stung its nose, upper lip curled with unmistakable anger. Then it went “Maaah” in a disgusted tone and trotted away, flicking its tail.

Murtagh slumped against the willow. The image of the goat’s open-mouthed face still filled him with revulsion. If he hadn’t woken, he felt sure the beast would have kept eating and eating and eating until it consumed him alive.

Fresh alarm flooded his mind; his fear had woken Thorn from the dragon’s own nap. For a few seconds, confusion reigned as their emotions overlapped and Murtagh attempted to calm Thorn.

It was just a goat, Murtagh said, extricating himself from the willow. Just a goat.

You scared me, said Thorn. Not an accusation, more of a plaintive statement.

I scared myself. I’m sorry. Everything is all right.

Do you want me to eat the goat?

For a moment, Murtagh seriously considered accepting. No, but I appreciate the offer.

Be careful. Even four-legs-no-fangs can be dangerous.

I know. I will.

Making a face, Murtagh brushed off his clothes. His back was sore from where the spell had slammed him into the willow tree. He berated himself for not setting a ward to wake him if someone or something came near…and for overreacting so strongly. Too many dangerous encounters had left him more twitchy than was good.

And yet his reactions had kept him alive.

He rubbed his hand where the goat had bitten him. The skin was red and bruised but unbroken.