Murtagh

“Well, he knocked me down into the mud, and I’m pretty sure he were fixing to eat me, but I meant to make it a real pain for him. I caught hold of what I thought were a stick, and I gave him a good poke in the head. You can imagine my surprise when the stick went right in and that were the end of him. After I got out of the water, I saw it weren’t no stick but a piece of bone from some unfortunate soul. You can see it if’n you want, out in the yard.”

“So his weakness was bone,” Wren murmured. “No wonder it escaped discovery until now.” He gestured at Murtagh’s clothes. “I see you managed to dry off since your misadventure.”

Blast it. Murtagh shrugged. “It were a long walk back to Gil’ead dragging that monster’s head. It’s bigger than a bull’s.”

“I see.” Wren tapped his fingers against the desktop. “What’s your name, son?”

For the second time in as many days, Murtagh had to choose a new name. And not just a name, an identity. “Task,” he said. “Task Ivorsson.”

Wren picked up the quill again and made a note. “Well, Task, you’ve done a great service for the people of Gil’ead, and you’ve more than earned your reward.” From a small box on the desk, he counted out four bright gold crowns into Murtagh’s palm.

Murtagh felt a small shock as he saw Nasuada’s profile stamped onto the front of each coin. It was the first time he had encountered the new currency of the realm, and he allowed himself a moment of inspection, disguised as the gawking of a man who had never before held so much gold.

The likeness was an uncanny one. So skilled was it, Murtagh felt sure magic had been used in its creation. The sight of Nasuada’s all-too-familiar profile—proud and perfect in resplendent relief, with a modest diadem upon her brow—set a familiar ache in his heart, and he touched the image with hesitant fingers.

Wren noticed. “I take it you haven’t seen our new queen before.”

“Not as such, no.” It was an unfortunately ambiguous answer, and Murtagh berated himself the instant he spoke, but to his relief, the captain didn’t request further clarification.

“Her Majesty’s treasury issued these near winter’s end,” said Wren. “I understand all the coinage is to be replaced in due course.”

Murtagh closed his hand over the crowns. It made sense. Nasuada would hardly want images of Galbatorix circulating throughout the land for the rest of her reign. He slipped the coins into his pouch.

“Now then,” said Wren. “I understand you want to join my company specifically. Why?”

Murtagh straightened further. “Everyone says it’s the best in the city, sir. And I’d like to be of some use again, aside from just guarding caravans.”

“Very commendable of you. Gert seemed impressed with your swordsmanship, and it takes a lot to pry a compliment out of that old goat. He also says you have some experience. So tell me, Task, where did you serve?”

It was a question with many meanings, and they both knew it. Murtagh noted that the captain had been careful not to ask with whom. “At the Battle of the Burning Plains,” he said quietly. “And I were also at Ilirea when it fell.”

Wren nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the vellum. As Murtagh had expected, the captain didn’t inquire further. Most of the men in Galbatorix’s army had been conscripts forced to swear oaths of loyalty to the king in the ancient language. Since the king’s death, and since Eragon had used the Name of Names to break those oaths, the many thousands of soldiers had been free to pick their own path. The majority returned to their homes. But a significant portion opted to continue their profession as men-at-arms, and Nasuada’s current regime was not so well established that they could afford to turn away so many trained men.

Besides, there were plenty of people throughout Nasuada’s realm who still held sympathies for the Empire and who regarded the Varden with no small amount of ill will. It was possible that such was the case with the captain.

Either way, it would have been impolitic for Wren to press for more details as to Murtagh’s past service. Knowing that, Murtagh had avoided mentioning his presence at the Battle of Tronjheim, for the only notable human forces there had been among the Varden, whereas humans had fought on both sides at the Burning Plains and Ilirea.

Captain Wren said, “How were you trained?”

“As a footman, but I’m better with a blade than a spear or pike, and I’m more than passable with a bow.”

The captain nodded, making another note. “And why are you looking to serve again, Task? Yes, you wish to be of use. But why now? I assume you’ve not marched under a banner since Ilirea.”

“No, sir…I wanted to see my family. I’m from a village called Cantos, in the south. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it….”

Wren shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”