Murtagh

A mongrel dog with reddish fur matted with mud came skulking after him, sniffing the trail of slime Muckmaw’s head had left. “Go on,” said Murtagh in a low voice. “Shoo. Be gone.”

The cur’s lip quivered, and his ears flattened.

Unwilling to risk the dog barking, Murtagh said, “Eitha!”

The mongrel uttered a small yelp-whine and ran off with his tail tucked between bony legs.

Murtagh shook his head.

From the cramped back garden of one house, he appropriated a small cart. He plopped Muckmaw’s head into it, made sure the lump of fish meat was well covered by his ruined cloak, and then trundled off toward the fortress.

Long shadows speared westward from each building as the sun broke free of the horizon. Within seconds, the air started to warm, and a flock of sparrows darted across the flushed sky, chasing insects rising off the lakefront.

Murtagh’s watchfulness sharpened as he neared the fortress; an unusual number of soldiers were moving through the city, and several elves stood by the front gate of the stronghold.

His misadventure at Oromis and Glaedr’s barrow seemed to have put the entire garrison on high alert.

Murtagh spotted a manservant holding the reins of a white mare by the front garden of a large house. He swung across the street and said, “ ’Scuse me, master. Could y’ tell me where I might find th’ barracks of th’ city guard?”

The manservant eyed Murtagh and the cart with undisguised disdain. His hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and his shirt was made of fine bleached linen, and he stood with the poised grace of a dancing instructor. He sniffed. “Up that street, on the right. Although I’ll be much surprised if they’ll speak to the likes of you.”

Murtagh bobbed his head. “Thank’ee, master.”

He continued on, feeling the servant’s eyes boring into his back until he turned the corner.

The barracks were a series of stone-sided buildings set against the fortress’s outer wall and protected with a much shorter wall around their perimeter. The entrance was a narrow gatehouse with a black oak door studded with iron nails. Two pikemen stood watch at the open door.

Through it, Murtagh could see men walking about a paved courtyard, sparring, drilling, and loosing arrows at straw targets. They were each garbed in the watch’s standard uniform: a red tabard over a padded gambeson stitched with the Varden’s emblem.

Murtagh lifted his chin and let his stride acquire some of the regulated crispness of a marching man. Here goes, he thought.

The pikemen crossed their weapons as he pushed the cart to the gatehouse. He noted that their tabards were neat and in good repair, which spoke well of Captain Wren’s command.

The two men looked more bored than concerned or aggravated by his presence. A good sign for things to come, he hoped.

“ ’Ey now,” the man on the right started to say, and Murtagh whipped the cloak off Muckmaw’s head.

The men’s eyes widened. The guard on the right whistled. He appeared a few years older than his counterpart. “Well, blow me sideways. Is that there what I think?”

Murtagh let go of the cart and stood straight. “It is. Muckmaw himself.”

The guards gave each other a glance. The older man pushed back his helm and leaned over the cart for a better view. “Son of an Urgal. It’s ’im, all right…. An’ I suppose you’re the one as caught ’im, is that it?”

“Yessir. And I’d like to join up. Sir.”

The pikemen looked at each other again, this time more seriously. The older one rubbed his chin and said, “Don’t sir me. I’m as common as dirt. Thing is, I’m ’fraid Captain Wren isn’t looking for no green recruit. Standing orders. You’ll be wanting a different company. They’re always eager for—”

The younger man tugged on his companion’s arm. “It’s Muckmaw, though, Sev. Muckmaw!”

The elder pikeman gnawed on his lip, his expression doubtful. “I don’t know, now. The captain’s orders were plain as day. If—”

Murtagh drew himself up and snapped his heels together. “I’m not green. And I’d like to serve Captain Wren.”

The man frowned, but then, to Murtagh’s relief, he turned to the yard and raised a hand. “Oi! Gert! Over here!”

One of the guardsmen broke away from sparring and headed toward them. Gert was heavy-shouldered, broad-handed, with the sort of determined stride that Murtagh had seen in dozens of veteran weaponmasters. He wore thick, short-cropped sideburns shot through with white, and his brow seemed permanently furrowed with exasperation at the stupidity of his troops.

As Gert reached the gatehouse, the pikeman said, “Look there. He caught Muckmaw!”

Gert’s tangled eyebrows rose as he surveyed the slimy, gape-mouthed head. “Muckmaw, eh?” He spat on the paving stones. “About time someone put an end to him. That creature’s been a blight on the lake fer an unnaturally long time.”

“An’ our friend here wants to join up,” the older pikeman said. “Says he has experience.”

Gert’s scowl returned as he looked Murtagh over. “That so. You’ve carried arms before?”

“I have.”

“Used them?”

“Yessir.”