Murtagh

Cardus-chewer said, “That’s not quite th’ whole of it, and you know it, Horvath. There’s a marshy area just west of here, along th’ shore, nearwise where th’ elves cleared out th’ last of Galbatorix’s soldiers. It goes from cattails to water weeds, an’ there are rocks large enough for Muckmaw t’ lurk beneath. Most times he’s somewhere in the vicinity during mornings an’ evenings.”

“Much obliged,” said Murtagh.

The fisherman nodded. “You’re still a young man. Wouldn’t want t’ see ol’ Rove measuring for your coffin ’cause you tangled with Muckmaw, if’n you take my meaning.”

And with that, he left.

***

Murtagh stayed to finish his mug of beer. It would have been odd if he hadn’t. While he sat and drank and thought about what he’d heard, bird-chest and his bearded friend bent together in close conversation. Then the hired swords slipped out of their chairs and quietly departed the tavern, keeping behind him the whole time.

He pretended not to notice. And he hoped his suspicions were misplaced.

By the fire, the two boys were beginning to appear sleepy, though they were still laughing and playing. The taller had won the last three games of jacks, and the shorter was arguing the fairness of his pebble snatching.

Murtagh put down his mug and went to the fireplace. The boys gave him a furtive look and then pretended to ignore him. He held out his hands, as if to warm them, and then checked to see if the barkeep had fallen back asleep.

The man slumped limp against the cask, his head lolled to one side on a boneless neck.

Good. As Murtagh turned to leave, he used his cloak as cover to pilfer a length of split pine from the woodbox next to the fireplace. With the pine hidden against his side, he left the tavern.

The night air was a fresh respite after the stuffy interior. He stood a moment and enjoyed a view of the stars while he cleared his lungs.

He kept a firm grip on the hidden piece of wood as he started down the dark docks. Carefully, ever so carefully, he allowed his mind to open and spread out, feeling for the touch of other people’s thoughts.

He noticed the two men just as they charged: one coming at him from the front, and the other out of an alley to his right. Bird-chest and his bearded friend, clubs in hand.

Murtagh hitched his step, throwing off the timing of his stride, ducked sideways, and drove his shoulder into the chest and stomach of the bearded man. The footpad’s breath left him with a whoof as Murtagh knocked him against the wall of the near building, a dry goods store with shuttered display windows.

Without waiting to see what happened to the man, Murtagh spun around and, with the length of pine, knocked aside bird-chest’s club and struck him on the collarbone.

The thin man collapsed with a gurgle and a clatter of jarred teeth.

The bearded man was still moving; he’d gotten onto his hands and knees and was struggling to stand.

A quick forward step, and Murtagh rapped him near the back of his skull. A rabbit blow, but not hard enough to kill.

“Ahh!” cried the bearded man, and he curled up, covering the back of his neck and head with his hands.

Murtagh paused for a moment to check for more enemies. Finding none, he looked back at the two unfortunate would-be thieves.

His teeth drew back in a snarl, his blood molten in his veins. He strode back to bird-chest and kicked him in the side. And again. And again. A shout of rage and frustration burst forth from him as he swung his leg.

One or more ribs cracked against his shin.

He knelt and grabbed the man by the hair. Bird-chest’s eyes rolled, and red bubbles popped at the corners of his mouth. His lips moved in a mute attempt to plead for mercy.

“Be a better father,” Murtagh growled. “Or next time, I’ll beat you worse than this, you worthless sack of filth.”

The man groaned as Murtagh dropped his head.

A purse on bird-chest’s belt caught his eye. He grabbed it, as well as the man’s dagger. It wasn’t a particularly nice dagger, but the blade appeared sound enough, so Murtagh transferred the weapon into his empty sheath.

“Da!”

The cry sent a chill through Murtagh. He looked up to see the two urchins standing by the door of the tavern, anger and fright on their dirty faces.

“Get away from him!” the smaller one shouted, and threw a handful of pebbles. Several bounced off Murtagh’s shoulders.

He stood. “Your father needs your help. See to him.” Then he hurried away.

Halfway up the docks, with the tavern well out of sight, Murtagh’s gut clenched and his heart seemed to flutter. He half stumbled before his stomach relaxed and his pulse resumed its usual pace. He swore.

He almost wished he’d killed the man. The children might have been better off because of it. Or maybe not. It was impossible to know. All he could be certain of was that he hated the man and his brutish stupidity.