Murtagh

See? said Thorn.

“Yes, you were right.” With renewed vigor, Murtagh set to gnawing on the last piece of tough flatbread. He swallowed with some effort. “I really want a proper loaf of bread.”

Thorn sniffed. Meat is better. Why chew on burnt plants?

“It tastes good, that’s why. You should try it again.”

No. It only tastes good because you put fat and salt on it.

“You have a point. All right, fat and salt taste good. Happy?”

Thorn’s eyes glittered. Bring me a mountain of bacon, and I will be happy.

“If I were king, I would,” Murtagh muttered. Their saddlebags were looking sadly depleted, and he’d spent almost all of their coin. With an unpleasant twinge, he remembered the purse he’d taken off bird-chest. He pulled it out of the pouch on his belt and cataloged the contents.

It wasn’t very much. Which he’d expected. If the man had been well off, he wouldn’t have attempted robbery. Still, the purse contained a handful of coppers and a single silver coin, which would be plenty to replenish their supplies.

After. Silna came first. Besides, what kind of a Rider would he be if he abandoned her?

He pocketed the coins and, as he did, noted the—again—empty sheath on his belt. With some regret, he imagined his pilfered dagger lying in the mud at the bottom of the lake. “Blast it. I don’t like going anywhere unarmed.”

He went to where Muckmaw’s head lay on the ground, wrapped in the muddy remains of his cloak. The thick, fishy stench nearly made him gag.

Murtagh grimaced as he gathered up the hem of his cloak. “And I just got clean.”

He grabbed the corners of the cloak and started to pull. After a few steps, he stopped and swore. The head was too big and heavy. If he dragged it all the way back to Gil’ead, he’d be completely exhausted by the time he arrived….

“Reisa,” he murmured.

Without a sound, Muckmaw’s head lifted off the ground, so that it hung floating a finger’s breadth above the matted grass. Murtagh waited a moment to see how much effort the spell cost him. It felt equivalent to shouldering an overladen pack: noticeable, but not so much that he couldn’t sustain it for a fair amount of time.

He grunted. “Good enough.”

Thorn crouched low, with a certain tightening around his eyes that Murtagh had learned was an expression of concern. How will you open the door that is closed?

“Carefully, I think. After our little escapade with Muckmaw, I have an unpleasant suspicion there’s more to it than Carabel said. Of everything she asked, I’m afraid this one might be the trickiest.”

Even more so than Muckmaw?

Murtagh shook his head. “Muckmaw was difficult, not tricky. This, though…I have to deal with other people, and people are hard to predict.”

Thorn hissed. I don’t like being left behind. I want to help.

“What would you have me do? There’s no changing this, not unless you want to face every soldier in the city—”

A small tongue of red flame jetted from Thorn’s narrowly opened maw. I would.

Murtagh gave him a hug about the neck. “Be careful. I’ll be as fast as I can. If all goes well, we should be able to slip away without being noticed.”

Good. And then we can fly again and not worry about these people and their prying eyes.

“And then we can fly again.”

***

The waterskin sloshed against Murtagh’s side as he ran. He’d learned his lesson from the previous day; he wasn’t going to be caught without water a second time.

On his back he carried his bedroll and, wrapped in the blanket, a few basic items, such as his tinderbox, pan, some food, and the other kit a traveling soldier might be expected to have.

All part of his plan.

Behind him, Muckmaw’s bundled head floated across the countryside, smooth as silk sliding over skin. A slight film of sweat coated Murtagh’s brow. Keeping the head suspended was taking its toll, but far less than if he’d attempted to drag it through the brush by strength of limb.

The eastern sky brightened as he ran. Grey turned into pinks and yellows, and the blue shadows that lay across the land began to thin. The sun would just be rising when he arrived at Captain Wren’s barracks, which was as he wanted.

The streets of Gil’ead were still mostly empty when he reached the city outskirts, though the smell of baking bread wafted from the buildings, warm and enticing.

His stomach growled.

With a thought, Murtagh ended the spell holding up Muckmaw’s head. The head fell to the ground with a wet splosh. He staggered at the sudden pull of weight and regripped the corner of the bundled cloak.

Leaning forward, Murtagh started to drag.

As before, he avoided the main roads, making his way between fields and outbuildings until he was able to slip into the city proper without being seen.