Murtagh

The wards he had placed around himself only went so far. Too much protection and he wouldn’t be able to interact with the world in a normal fashion—touching a sharpened edge or an overly hot pot, for example—and powering wards all the time would exhaust him, as they fed off the strength of his body. Which meant he’d never set a ward to specifically prevent an animal from biting him. Nor had the goat’s teeth met any of the conditions he’d built into his wards.

I’ll have to fix that, he thought. It would be a tricky bit of spellcraft, but he wasn’t about to let some thrice-cursed goat eat him either.

The horizon was a hazy line bisecting the gold half dome of the setting sun. Purple shadows streaked the land, and nightjars darted overhead, chasing insects as the first stars appeared in the sky beyond.

At Glaedr’s burial mound, orange lights bobbed and flickered around the base of the rise. Murtagh cursed. Have you nothing better to do? he wondered, eyeing the distant mourners. They showed no signs of leaving; if anything, their numbers had grown. He had a horrible suspicion that some of them intended to hold vigil at the tomb throughout the whole night.

Hopefully the elf had departed. Either way, Murtagh dared not wait any longer. Time was tight, and he feared that catching Muckmaw might be a more involved process than Carabel had made it seem. If the fish slept, as most animals did, he would not show himself until the following day.

“Let’s get this over with,” Murtagh muttered, and set out for the barrow. He wished he’d brought a waterskin. He was even more thirsty now.

The walk allowed him to plan. The elves were sure to have placed spells on the location to prevent anyone from desecrating Oromis and Glaedr’s remains. That was the first difficulty. The second was finding a scale. If the farmer he’d spoken to was right and the elves had burned Glaedr’s body, there wouldn’t be many scales left—and the barrow made for a decently sized hill, so actually locating a scale amid all the dirt would be tricky even with magic. Third was the need to do so without attracting attention.

At least the dusk would help hide his actions.

The fourth and final difficulty was Murtagh’s own reluctance. He didn’t want to visit the barrow, and he didn’t want to dig up anything of Glaedr’s body, and he worried about why a dragon scale was needed to lure in Muckmaw. Why not something else equally large and shiny? Was there some quality to dragon scales that he was ignorant of? Or was Muckmaw drawn to arcane objects specifically? Either possibility was concerning.

He slowed as he came onto the path leading to the barrow. From there, he moved at a measured pace, another travel-weary pilgrim at the end of a long day of walking.

It wasn’t so far from the truth.

Around the barrow, he counted twelve people: all humans, five women, seven men. They were commoners, dressed in rough smocks, caps, and loosely gathered trousers. Most appeared to be farmers from the countryside or laborers from the city. Two of the women smelled of Gil’ead’s dock, and one of the men, a thin, bristle-haired fellow, wore a blacksmith’s leather apron.

Some knelt, some stood—lanterns in hand—and a low murmur of sad voices floated through the evening air. They were praying for the dead, Murtagh realized. Praying, pleading, or simply remembering.

The path continued up the side of the grass-draped barrow to the oak tree at its crest. Flagstones had been set into the soil to make the climb easier. By the tree, two more people knelt: women in shawls of black lace. From them came a soft keening.

Murtagh felt deeply uncomfortable. Merely being there seemed like an intrusion and an insult to their grief.

As he edged around the barrow to the shadow side, he came upon a standing stone planted by the base of the mound. It was as high as his waist, and two more of similar height stood in line. Rows of chiseled runes covered all three stones, along with patterns of decorative knots.

Curious, he paused and read.

His blood chilled. The first stone told the whole sorry story of the Dragon Riders, starting with their formation as a means to keep the peace between the different races of Alagaësia—which they had succeeded at for centuries—and following through to their destruction at the hands of Galbatorix, then a young, untested Rider who had turned against his order after losing his dragon and going mad with grief.

Murtagh’s stomach cramped as he scanned the lines. The Forsworn were mentioned, of course, and Morzan specifically.

The second stone recounted how Galbatorix had established the Empire following the defeat of the Riders and, with the Forsworn by his side, ruled as sovereign absolute over the greater part of humanity. Galbatorix the Deathless, the runes called him, as the king indeed had aged but little over the hundred years since, a remnant of his bond as Rider.