Murtagh

The scarred fisherman burst out: “He’s a right mean old bastard, is what he is. You see this mark on my arm? There is where he bit me four summers ago. Bastard. I’d like as to gut him and smoke him up for dinner one of these days.”

“We all would,” said cardus-chewer. The hired swords were listening intently now, eyes gleaming in the dull red light of the coals. “You see, Oreth, th’ blasted fish is near as long as one of our sailboats. A good ten paces from tip to butt, I’d reckon, and ’bout three paces ’cross the beam.”

Murtagh felt a frown forming between his brows as he listened. What didn’t Carabel tell me? “That’s…a big fish.” Even if they were exaggerating, Muckmaw was clearly enormous.

Cardus-chewer snorted. “You could say that. The blasted thing is nearabouts a small whale. It’s a sturgeon, see, or someth’n like a sturgeon. Armored plates th’ size of a buckler on its sides, razor spines along its back, big old barbels coming off its mouth. The mouth is what gave ’im his name. Muckmaw. He trawls th’ bottom of th’ lake, scooping up everything, feeding off it. Whenever he comes up, he has silt an’ mud streaming from his mouth, like smoke from a charcoal burner. He’s been lurking about Isenstar for the past sixty years. And it’s true, he’s mean. He fouls our lines and cuts our nets whenever he has th’ chance. We’ve seen him scoop up herons, cave in the sides of boats…. Not last year he knocked poor old Brennock right out of his skiff an’ thrashed him near to death with his tail.”

“Muckmaw’s tail, not Brennock’s,” the scarred fisherman clarified.

A bark of laughter escaped cardus-chewer. “Yah. Brennock wouldn’t know what to do with a tail even if he had one.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened. “Come now. You’re yanking my cap, aren’t you? You can’t expect me to believe—”

“Every word of it’s honest truth, swear on me ma’s grave,” said cardus-chewer.

As he spoke, Murtagh saw a pair of boys slip into the Rusty Anchor from the scullery: the two urchins from earlier. The brothers took up on the hearth and sat together, bent in close conversation. Here in the tavern, Murtagh noticed an undeniable resemblance to the bird-chested man. He snorted. I should have figured as much. He wondered what sort of arrangement the brothers and father had with the barkeep.

Putting it from his mind, he said, “Well…if that’s really how things stand, why hasn’t anyone caught or killed Muckmaw by now?”

Cardus-chewer leaned forward with his elbows on the table, eyes strangely bright. “The tale’s in the answering, so listen closelike, and don’t be doubting a word of it. Those sixty years ago, Haugin was ’bout ten summers old. As he tells it, he an’ two other boys were out fishing from th’ shore, couple miles north a’ here. It were him, Sharg Troutnose, and Nolf the Short. Both Sharg and Nolf are buried now, but they told th’ same story while they were ’round and kicking.”

He adjusted the plug of cardus in his cheek and downed a mouthful of beer. “Anyways—”

The third fisherman—a thin, gaunt-faced man who had been silent until then—said, “Tell him about the—”

“Aight. I’m getting to it!” said cardus-chewer, visibly annoyed. He rolled his shoulders, taking an extra moment before resuming. The gaunt-faced man glared. “Anyways, th’ boys were fishing, and they’d caught a couple of trout, couple of sturgeon, and they’d put ’em out on th’ shore. Only, instead of giving ’em a rap on the head to stop ’em from thrashing, they decided they’d sit and watch and see how long it took ’em to stop wiggling about and which one lasted longest. It weren’t right, but, well, you know how boys can be.”

Murtagh did. He stared into the depths of his beer.

“So there they are, sitting and watching th’ fish gasp on th’ rocks, and a man walks up from behind ’em. No horse, no ox, just walks on out of the wilds. Haugin says he were a strange-looking man. His hair were red, not red like my whiskers but proper red, like a cut ruby. An’ his teeth were sharp and pointed like cat teeth.”

A cold prickle crawled up the back of Murtagh’s neck as he listened. Durza. What had the spirit-possessed mage been doing in Gil’ead all those years ago? Carrying out some miserable, blood-soaked mission for Galbatorix, no doubt—or at least, so Murtagh assumed. Much of Durza’s history remained a mystery to him. Galbatorix had kept the existence of the Shade a secret from his court, and Murtagh had only learned of Durza during his travels with Eragon. Later, after the Twins had dragged him back to the capital and Thorn had hatched, Galbatorix had told Murtagh a few details about Durza’s service, but only a few.