Murtagh

Murtagh wondered who had carved and placed the stones. Not the elves, for it was not their writing, but someone who knew of the true history of the land. That which Galbatorix had forbidden the common folks to share.

The third and final stone told of Oromis and Glaedr. How they had taught among the Riders. How they had been last surviving of all their order, hidden for the past century among the elves in Du Weldenvarden. And how they had died during the Varden’s rebellious war against the Empire, cut down at Gil’ead by the son of Morzan. Cut down by the betrayer, Murtagh.

He stood for a time, feeling as if he’d taken a blow to the chest. Then a nightjar swooped past with a soft brush of wings and a trill, and he started, as if waking from a reverie.

With slow steps, Murtagh moved past the stones and leaned on his staff. He stared at the ground, hood over his face, and did his best to look like the other mourners. In a way, it was the truth.

Forgive me, he thought. At the back of his mind, he could feel Thorn watching, and the dragon’s regret added to his own.

The ground beneath his boots was soft with scythed clover. He closed his eyes and let himself sway back and forth to match the keening from above.

If he tried to use magic to pull a scale straight out of the barrow, he’d be sure to trigger whatever protective magic lay within. The key, as ever, would be to accomplish what he wanted in an indirect, sideways manner. Such was the way to defeat wards. As Eragon had with Galbatorix…

He thought about it for some minutes. In the end, it was his thirst that gave him the answer. He looked for flaws in his logic and, finding no obvious ones, assembled the words he needed and murmured, “Reisa adurna fra undir, un ílf fïthren skul skulblaka flutningr skul eom edtha.”

And he fed a thin thread of energy into the ground beneath the barrow, searching for whatever water there was to find.

The idea was relatively simple. Instead of casting a spell directly on the barrow, he would use magic to push water up through the soil, and if the water touched a scale, it would carry the scale through the dirt to his hand. However, he would confine the motive energy for the water to an area deep underground so that no part of the strength he spent would directly affect the scale or anything else within the mound.

Whether that would be enough to circumvent whatever wards the elves had placed upon the tomb, he didn’t know.

We might have to make a hasty retreat, he thought.

As he stood there, concentrating on the trickle of his own strength draining into the depths of the earth, a shuffling footstep sounded nearby.

He glanced over. The bristle-haired blacksmith had for some forsaken reason moved over to join him.

Worse yet, the man began to talk. “I haven’t seen you here before, stranger. You’re not from thesewise parts, I take it?”

Murtagh struggled to split his attention between his spell and the blacksmith. For a moment, he nearly ended the magic, but he didn’t. Every attempt would increase the risk of discovery.

“No,” he said, keeping his face down.

“Ayuh. I thought as much,” said the man, satisfied. He rubbed his corded arms against the evening chill. “Iverston is m’ name. Iverston Varisson. Although everyone round th’ lake calls me Mallet, on account of, well, that’s a story that’d take a jug of cider to tell, if y’ follow. Were I to start, I’d be talking from now to sunup.”

Murtagh knew what was expected of him. “Tornac son of Tereth.”

Mallet peered at him with a somewhat concerned look. “You’re not an elf, are you? No…I see not. There’s someth’n elfish ’bout your face, though, if’n you don’t mind me saying.”

Murtagh did mind, but he held his tongue. The barrow was too large for him to bring up water underneath the whole thing; he had to start in one quarter and slowly work his way across.

Another pause, and Mallet rubbed his arms again while looking at the women at the crest of the mound. He gestured at them. “They’re always up there, y’ know? Sisters, come from the city. Lost their father during th’ battle. Their brother too, I think. Everyone here lost someone. Most of ’em, leastwise. Couple folks are just enamored with th’ idea of dragons.” He tapped his temple. “Something a bit crooked in their heads, I reckon. No offense intended, if’n that applies.”

“It doesn’t,” said Murtagh, keeping his voice low.

Mallet nodded wisely. “That’s good. Ain’t right t’ be worshipping a dragon, if’n you ask me…. I don’t come most nights, y’ know. Only when work at th’ forge is low. It’s been a few weeks since m’ last visit. Harvest time’s full up w’ pitchforks an’ shoeing an’ scythes an’ chains needin’ mending, an’ then there’s always nails t’ be making. Never enough nails in th’ world, you know?”

Murtagh nodded and made a noise as if he did. Still nothing from his spell, but he could feel the cold water oozing through the dark soil.