Murtagh

“Why…,” he said, and then stopped. Mallet stooped slightly, as if to look under the edge of Murtagh’s hood. “Why do they grieve here, if…if…” He wasn’t sure how to phrase the question in a diplomatic way.

He was relieved when Mallet picked up the thread. “If it were th’ dragon and th’ elves that killed those as they cared f’r?” His knobby shoulders lifted under his shift. “I couldn’t rightwise tell you f’r most. Might be they hated th’ Empire, and th’ death of th’ dragon and his Rider makes ’em feel right bad. ’Course might also be th’ Rider helped ’em during the battle. I know it to be th’ case with Neldrick over there. Buncha soldiers set fire to his farmhouse on their way t’ flank the elves. Th’ dragon came down and put out th’ fire with his wings, something like a storm or a force of nature is what I heard.”

The blacksmith crossed his arms and buried his chin in his chest. “Me? I ain’t got no story as epic as that. Nothing th’ bards would sing about, nothing like that. My son, y’ see, Ervos—we named him after his mother’s father—my eldest, my only son, he got it in his head a few summers back t’ join the Varden. Always was a headstrong boy, that one. Thought he’d do well ’cause of it, but…he ran off without telling us, and we didn’t hear nothing of him till the war was over. Couple of the Varden came by t’ tell us they’d fought with him on th’ Burning Plains. Th’ Burning Plains! Can you imagine?” Mallet shook his head. “Ain’t never seen anything like that, I can tell you. Whole wide swath of land that burns and burns forever. Crazy t’ think of…. Anyways, the men who came by were footsore and battle-weary. They’d been at Feinster and Ilirea after. Saw Roran Stronghammer fight, they said. And anyways, they said, well, they said Ervos had been with ’em when th’ Empire charged ’em, and, well…”

Mallet’s chest rose and fell several times. Then he stared up at the stars, and though Murtagh didn’t want to see, he looked over, and he caught the silvered glimmer of tears in the man’s eyes.

“It’s funny, y’ know,” said the blacksmith. “Y’ take all that time t’ feed and clothe a child. Take care of ’em. Keep ’em from killing themselves on every such thing. But y’ can’t protect ’em from themselves. Ervos…he wanted to belong t’ something bigger than himself, I think. He wanted a cause t’ believe in, t’ fight for, and there was no giving him that in a forge, y’ see…. He always was a headstrong boy.”

He shook his head. “Never even got t’ see his body. That’s the hardest part, would y’ believe. Can’t say goodbye proper without a body.” He gestured at the barrow. “So this’ll have to serve till a body shows, if ever it does.”

Murtagh’s mouth and throat were so dry, it was difficult to talk. He thought he knew the charge Mallet spoke of; he’d been the one to lead it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s the way of the world, and no sorrow will fix it, but thank y’ all the same, stranger.” Keeping his eyes fixed on the stars, the bristle-haired man said, “If’n you want, it can help t’ talk about such things. And if’n you’re not so inclined, that’s fine too, y’see.”

The shadowed privacy of the gloaming loosened Murtagh’s tongue, made him feel as if he could speak of subjects that normally were too painful to give voice. But he knew it was a false sense of anonymity, so he chose his words with care.

“I lost…I lost a friend. More like a father. Killed by Galbatorix’s men.”

“Ah now, that’s hard, and there’s no denying it.”

“Not as hard as others have it.”

Mallet looked down from the sky. “Well, far as I see it, there’s no putting a price on pain, if’n you follow. Everyone’s entitled to their own. Would be a strange thing t’ say that some pain is easier ’an others without knowin’ what it’s like in another’s shoes, if’n that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Mallet harrumphed and nodded, and then surprised Murtagh by patting him on the shoulder. “Y’ seem like a man who wants his space, so I’ll leave y’ to it, but if y’ change your mind, I’ll be over thatwise.”

And the blacksmith moved off around the base of the mound until he was a dark outline at the far side, leaving Murtagh standing alone in the shadow of the barrow.

Murtagh let out a small, choked laugh that was nearly a cry. Faint from distance, Thorn said in a carefully neutral tone, What a strange man.

Not really, said Murtagh.

He concentrated on his spell then, working the water through the ground with greater speed. So far, it didn’t seem to have triggered any protective spells.

Foot by careful foot, he pressed the water past stone and pebble, worked it into interstitial spaces, penetrated mud and clay and packed layers of ash—the mortal remains of the great dragon Glaedr. The dragon had been enormous by most standards. Smaller than Shruikan but still several times the size of Thorn or Saphira. And his pyre had left a thick stratum of incinerated muscle, organs, bones, and scales.