Murtagh

Then the swell subsided, leaving only a trail of ripples behind.

“I swear, I didn’t feel anything,” said Murtagh, tracking the ripples. It’s huge! Cardus-chewer’s description had failed to adequately convey the true size of the fish. Muckmaw was bigger than a cave bear, bigger even than a three-month-old dragon (if one ignored the wings).

Murtagh marshaled his mental resources and then stabbed outward with his thoughts, aiming to locate and immobilize the gigantic animal, even as the elf had immobilized him at the barrow.

“I still don’t feel anything,” he whispered. “Thorn, can you—”

A faint growl escaped the dragon. It’s like claws on ice. I can’t catch hold.

Murtagh swore under his breath. “I’m going to have words with that werecat,” he said, scanning the now-seamless lake.

Durza must have hidden Muckmaw’s mind, said Thorn.

“A pretty trick too. I’m not even sure how I’d go about doing that…. Try drawing in the scale. Let’s see if that gets his attention.”

Thorn obliged with some difficulty. The toes on his forefoot were too large for nimble work, and yet he managed to twist and tangle the cord about his limb enough to shorten the line yard by yard.

A new ripple, proud and wide, appeared, moving crosswise to the prevailing current, heading toward where Murtagh guessed Glaedr’s scale was. There. It was a long shot, especially when firing into water, but Murtagh decided to chance it. In a single smooth motion, he pressed the bow away while pulling the string to the corner of his jaw and—without hesitation—released.

The arrow whirred as it flew, and he sent with it a killing word spoken with fatal intent.

Droplets shot up as the arrow hit the lake just ahead of the ripples.

And then…

…the ripples smoothed and subsided, and from the spell he’d cast, Murtagh felt no drain of energy.

He’d missed.

He bit back a curse and nocked another arrow, fast as he could.

“Here, fishy, fishy,” he muttered, sweeping his gaze across the lake. He squinted. Was that movement to the right? The water was too dark to be sure.

“Brisingr,” he whispered, and released the energy in a carefully measured trickle, so as to create a dim orb of red fire in front of him. It hung over the water like a minor sun, just bright enough to allow him to clearly see the heaving hide of the lake.

He hoped the light might help tempt the fish closer.

Thorn continued to pull in the cord. Glaedr’s scale was nearly to them. Murtagh could make out a golden shimmer beneath the waves, rising toward the surface.

He opened his mouth to suggest that Thorn try jiggling the line.

A great mass raced upward from beneath the scale, and blackness yawned around Glaedr’s jeweled remnant, and hideously wide jaws clamped shut, disappearing it from view.

Thorn yanked on the cord. The line snapped with a wirelike twang.

Murtagh drew and loosed in a single motion, and with it, he cried the killing word.

A line of white bubbles traced the arrow’s downward path. It was a good shot. The shaft hit somewhere on Muckmaw’s yard-wide head. Murtagh saw, felt, and heard the impact.

The arrow glanced to the side and disappeared into the waves of Isenstar. Again, Murtagh felt no decrease in strength from his spell.

Then Muckmaw’s bulk sank from sight, as a hulled derelict descending to its final resting place, and no hint of his pale-rimmed eyes remained. Nor of Glaedr’s scale.

Murtagh lowered his bow. Nocking another arrow would be pointless. He cursed.

Beside him, Thorn shook the slack remnants of the cord off his forefoot. The fish is formidable.

“If we lose him, I swear, I’ll drain the whole blasted—”

A V-shape of ripples formed off to the right, maybe seventy feet from shore. The ripples traced a curve about the tongue of slate he and Thorn stood on.

Thorn shifted slightly, gaze intent on the disturbance. He has not fled.

“No.”

He is playing with us.

“How intelligent can he be?”

The ripples faded.

Thorn’s glittering eyes turned on him for a moment. Cunning enough to hunt a man.

Cold concern congealed at the back of Murtagh’s skull. Thorn was right. Most animals—most fish—would have fled after being attacked. But then, Muckmaw wasn’t like most fish. That was the entire problem.

Murtagh set his jaw, determined. No fish was going to best him, regardless of its enchantments. He slipped his bow into his quiver, along with the arrows. The time for physical weapons had passed.

“All wards have a limit,” he said. “Let’s find the limits of this one. I’ll need some of your strength, though.”

Thorn’s maw split to show his curved teeth. What’s mine is yours.