Murtagh

Murtagh took a shuddery breath. His vision blurred. Tears or lakewater dripping from his hair, he wasn’t sure which. While Galbatorix himself had been evil, Murtagh couldn’t help but pity the ordinary men who had marched under the Empire’s banner, many of whom had been pressed into service. He had campaigned with them. Broken bread with them. And he knew them to be good and true. They’d had no choice whether to fight, and at Gil’ead and Ceunon, they had faced an attack from outside their lands and outside their race.

It was not so hard to understand why they spent their lives in defense of the Empire. Under different circumstances, Murtagh would have done the same.

They trusted us to be their champions, and we couldn’t help them, he thought. The conclusion was profoundly depressing.

Thorn responded with firm force: No. We did what we could, and none can claim otherwise. Do not torment yourself over this.

A small wave struck Murtagh in the mouth. He spat out a thimbleful of water and shook his head. It wasn’t a fair fight. He had seen how human might failed before the speed and strength of the elves. Even were they fairly matched, the elven spellcasters alone would have devastated Galbatorix’s army.

Magic unbalances all things, said Thorn.

He thought about that as he extinguished the werelight and swam back to Muckmaw’s floating body. You’re right. And it always has. Galbatorix had his solution. Nasuada is trying her own, by means of Du Vrangr Gata. Even the ancient language itself was an attempt at control.

You could no more seek to control the wind or the rain than to control magic.

Then what hope has the ordinary man in a world of magicians?

The same hope any creature has when battered by the storms of fate.

Murtagh hooked a hand through Muckmaw’s exposed gills and tried to pull the fish toward the shore. It barely moved. He turned to Thorn as the dragon slithered closer.

“Help.”

***

With Thorn’s assistance, moving Muckmaw to the shore was—while not easy—a fairly quick process. Once there, Thorn crawled out of the water, and then extended a paw and dragged the fish onto the bank.

Murtagh collapsed next to the fish and stared at the ceaseless stars in their slow rotation. Images of the submerged skeletons continued to pass through his mind.

Thorn kicked Muckmaw’s corpse out of the way with one of his hind legs before curling around Murtagh and draping a wing over him to form a warm, safe pocket.

Murtagh closed his eyes. His wards had exhausted him even more than the strain of the fight, and his body ached from the battering he’d taken. Especially his left forearm, where the bone beneath the old cut throbbed as if bruised. He needed food, and a warm fire, and a long sleep.

Not yet, he thought. Silna still needed rescuing, and he was worried that he didn’t have enough time to install himself in Captain Wren’s company before the guards departed with the youngling. Assuming that Carabel’s suspicions were correct. He comforted himself with the thought that Silna’s captors likely wouldn’t leave until morning.

A tremor passed through Thorn; the dragon was shaking, as if cold. “What’s wrong?” Murtagh murmured, and stroked Thorn’s belly.

The dragon growled slightly. You’re hurt.

Not too badly. I’ll be fine in a day or two.

Thorn shivered again and growled slightly. I was too slow. I could not catch you in time.

That’s not—

The fish could have killed you.

“It takes a lot to kill me,” Murtagh said out loud. The sound of his voice usually had a calming influence on Thorn. “And you too.”

At first Thorn didn’t respond. Then Murtagh heard rather than saw the dragon’s teeth snap together. Yes. A lot.

“And nothing has succeeded so far.”

I would rather keep it that way.

He patted Thorn and, with a groan, rolled onto his feet. Thorn’s wing lifted as he stood, again revealing the night sky and Muckmaw’s slumped corpse.

Murtagh rubbed his arms and wrung water from his sleeves. “This is the day that never ends.”

It’s already past midnight. A new day, said Thorn.