Murtagh

Murtagh wasn’t sure if any scales had survived. The fires elves made with their magic burned hotter than those of a forge.

But he kept searching. Every inch of progress felt like a transgression. He was not by nature weak of stomach—blood did not sicken him, nor did the gore and viscera of battle—but knowing that the tendrils of water were passing through what had once been the innards of a creature such as Thorn made Murtagh increasingly queasy.

He fervently wished to be quit of the task, and he cursed the werecat with what energy he could afford.

Then, just as he began to despair…there! A shift in the flow of water as it touched an object near the center of the barrow. A scale, he hoped. The water caressed the object, formed a pocket around it, and, gentle as a mother’s touch, drew it forth from the womb of the earth.

It was hardly an unlabored process. Rocks and bones blocked the way, and every few inches, an obstacle forced the water to divert. Each time, he struggled to return the scale to its intended course, and each time, he succeeded. That was, until the scale met an enormous stone that defied his every effort to bypass.

“Barzûl,” he swore. He couldn’t seem to find the edges of the stone; the scale kept getting caught on unseen ridges.

With no other option, he increased the flow of water, pushed more and more into the barrow until it softened the soil beneath the stone, turned it into a pool of mud.

Thin rivulets of water seeped out by his feet, and the belly of the barrow sagged slightly, as if to collapse.

“Hold,” he muttered, willing the mound to stand.

Within the ground, he felt the stone sink into the morass he’d created. The scale slid forward in a rush of pressure released, and he quickly reduced the amount of water to the bare minimum needed to keep the scale moving.

Like a mountain spring burst to life, a patch of dew welled from the surface of the grassy barrow, and then the soil parted. From within the dark interior a gleaming, golden scale emerged, bright as a faceted gem of topaz. In the dusk, the scale was a shield-shaped piece of evening sunlight, a condensed pool of illumination, still possessed of a sense of life and motion.

Wonderstruck, he ended his spell and took the palm-sized scale from the ground.

The instant his hand touched the scale, a foreign mind touched his, and a mental attack struck him with such strength, he staggered and clung to the staff in order to remain standing.

Murtagh reacted without thinking, old reflexes taking charge. He recoiled deep within himself, armoring his mind and focusing on the phrase he used to block out any other thoughts. “You shall not have me. You shall not have me. You shall not have me,” he muttered, over and over.

Despite his speed, he wasn’t fast enough. The other mind bore down upon him with implacable force. Whoever it was possessed incredible mental discipline and, it seemed, complete mastery of their emotions, for Murtagh felt nothing but fiercely controlled intent.

He tried to move, tried to drop the scale, but the invading consciousness held him in place through sheer overwhelming strength.

Murtagh assumed his assailant was an elf, one from Gil’ead set to guard the barrow. Normally a mental projection of such intensity required the magician to be relatively close. At least within half a mile. However, Murtagh guessed that the scale was somehow enchanted to act as a scrying mirror or a magnifier—a conduit between whoever touched it and the ones protecting the barrow.

Even so, time was short. It wouldn’t take an elf long to ride from Gil’ead to the barrow. Minutes, if that.

If Thorn were trying to help, Murtagh couldn’t tell. He hoped the dragon wouldn’t leave the hollow.

Between the words of his defensive chant, he again tried to move the hand touching the scale. Nothing.

“You shall not have me. You shall not have me.”

As determined and disciplined as the other mind was, Murtagh knew he was stronger. When it came to resolve, he could hold his own with the largest, oldest, and wisest creatures in Alagaësia. Galbatorix may have been able to break Murtagh’s defenses, but he had never broken his will—and that gave Murtagh courage that, no matter how dire the situation, his self would prevail.

Then from the intruding mind came a questing thought, in both the human tongue and in the ancient language: Who are you?

Alarm threatened to disrupt Murtagh’s focus. He couldn’t wait any longer. If his attacker learned his name…He had to find a way to disrupt the elf’s attention and slip away.

With his off hand, he fumbled at his belt until he found the hilt of his dagger. He drew it, and then—with grim-minded determination—stabbed his right forearm.

Not deeply. Not enough to cause major damage but enough to cause pain, and it was pain he wanted.

His face contorted with agony, and the dagger fell from his fingers. The unexpected spike of pain passed through his mind into the elf’s, and as Murtagh had hoped, it broke his attacker’s focus.