Murtagh

Murtagh matched his grin. Then he returned his focus to the water. The scarred fisherman had spoken the truth: killing Muckmaw was a task for an elf or a Rider. Few others would be equal to the challenge. And by disposing of the fish, they could do some good for the common folk of Gil’ead, while also furthering their own interests. It was a gratifying combination.

Crouching, Murtagh felt around until he found a piece of loose slate. He cocked his arm and tossed the slate a few yards out into the near waters. Far enough that Muckmaw might feel safe, but close enough that Murtagh would have a clear line of sight.

A string of pearlescent bubbles appeared, rising toward the surface. He tensed, keeping firm the connection between his mind and Thorn’s.

Another swell of water formed, not thirty feet away.

Murtagh focused on an area just beneath the surface, pointed, and spoke the Word, the Name of Names.

Along with the Word, he added a phrase intended to strip away the magics bound to Muckmaw, to break and end the enchantments Durza had placed on the fish more than half a century ago. Although the Word granted him complete control over the ancient language, he still found it helpful—and often necessary—to explicitly state the desired outcome.

He released the spell and, as with most uses of the Word, felt only the slightest decrease of energy. But it was enough to know the spell had taken effect. Altering existing magic by reason of the Name of Names required little in the way of brute strength. It was a subtle art more akin to adjusting the weave of a tapestry than shattering a piece of pottery.

“Got you,” he muttered. Then: “Kverst!”

The word parted the swell of water as neatly as cloth cut by a razor. Underneath, Murtagh glimpsed a ridge of bladed spines and, spread to either side, a broad, humped back covered with a layer of blue-black scales glistening in the silvery light. But the spell did nothing more, and Muckmaw again dove from view.

“What?!” Murtagh’s astonishment shaded into outrage. He drove a spear of thought toward the fish…only to strike emptiness and absence. “How?” The spell had worked. He’d felt it! And yet somehow Muckmaw remained unharmed.

Again he spoke the Word, and again he sought to break the magic bound to Muckmaw, and again it felt as if he’d succeeded. But when he sent another killing spell into the water, it passed ineffectively around the overgrown sturgeon.

He tried twice more—growing increasingly frustrated—and met with the same results.

How was it done? Thorn asked. Wordless magic?

Murtagh shook his head. “It can’t be. The spell did what it was supposed to. I’m sure of it. It’s just…” Counting Sarros, this made two times now that the Name of Names had failed him. It was not, he was coming to realize, the all-powerful weapon he had originally thought. That, and he had far less of an understanding of magic than he’d hoped.

He squatted on his hams and chewed on the inside of his cheek while he studied the lake. Then he laughed, quick and soft. “You clever bastard.” He looked at Thorn. “I don’t know if this is the answer, but one way it could be done would be to word a spell so that if anything changes or removes it, the spell replaces itself. If this, then that.” Not so dissimilar from the spells he’d experimented with during their trip to Gil’ead.

Can you use the Name of Names to stop the spell from returning?

“Maybe. Probably. But I’d have to think on it.”

Then think on it.

An itch formed on his right palm. He scratched. “I don’t know. It might be faster to just—” His scalp prickled, and his nostrils flared as fear jolted through him. My hand! He spun toward Thorn, saying, “We have to go. Get us into the—”

A splash sounded to his right and—

—he turned to see a huge, glistening mass hurtling toward him from the water. He barely had time to register a sense of disbelief before the giant fish slammed into him and he, and it, fell into the lake.

CHAPTER VI Heave and Toil

The cold water closed around Murtagh in a deadly embrace. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, didn’t know which direction was up.

The impact had knocked the quiver off his back. His cloak tangled his arms and legs, making it impossible to swim.

Even through the tumult of water, he heard Thorn roaring, and a wash of red dragonfire lit the depths of the lake from above, wherever above was.

He ripped off the brooch that held his cloak clasped around his neck and kicked and punched heavy fabric away. Ribbons of white bubbles flowed sideways past his face. Up!

With a swing of his arms, he righted himself and swam toward the surface. His werelight had vanished, but floating on the choppy laketop, he saw the shape of his bow, a bright-burning crescent.

A warning instinct caused him to glance around.