Murtagh

The werecat continued to struggle and complain, so at last he said, “Fine. You want to go down? Here.” And he plopped her on the wet stones.

Silna hissed, fur still fluffed out, and she crouched and looked up and down the dark tunnel, uncertain.

Murtagh studied her. Cats weren’t as trusting as dogs, and werecats were even more of an enigma than ordinary cats, but he was beginning to wonder what more he would have to do to prove himself to her. “It’s all right,” he said in a soft voice. When that failed to evince a response, he motioned in either direction. “What’s it to be? Hmm? I don’t know about you, but I’d like to escape here with my hide intact. Come with me, and I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

The tip of Silna’s tail twitched.

Murtagh took a step down the tunnel. He looked back.

The werecat didn’t move.

He took another few steps. Still, Silna refused to budge. In the gloom, her patched coat nearly vanished, just one more shadow amid the larger darkness.

He kept walking, and as the glow from his werelight faded from Silna’s position, he heard the faint pad of paws following him.

When he turned to look, Silna immediately sat and started licking a paw, as if nothing had happened.

He snorted and resumed walking. He felt sure she would stay close, but for safety’s sake, he opened his mind and let out a tiny feeler, just enough to sense her presence.

In like fashion, they continued.

The two of them wandered for what seemed like hours. They should have long since left Gil’ead behind, but the tunnels were a tangled nest of intersecting and overlapping openings. Who dug these? Murtagh wondered. In places the tunnels almost resembled natural formations; he even bumped his head against a stalactite in one dark corner. The warren made no sense. It reminded him of the lines dug by beetles under the bark of trees.

Still, they pressed onward, and Murtagh did his best to avoid any passage that led deeper into the earth, even if it meant bypassing another left-hand turn. If they ended up on a lower level, he doubted they would ever find the way out, barring a spell to burrow back to the surface.

At times he thought he heard voices behind him, ahead of him, to the sides, but they were always phantoms. The speakers never materialized, and he began to wonder if he were imagining things.

Throughout, he didn’t dare try to contact Thorn. If Arven or any other magician from Du Vrangr Gata—or even an elf—were looking for him, they would be sure to notice his mind reaching out.

So Murtagh confined his thoughts to himself, and he and Silna trotted along in silence.

***

Finally!

A faint silver glow brightened the tunnel ahead of them, and Murtagh heard the steady burble of running water. “Stay close,” he whispered to Silna. Then he snuffed his werelight, drew his cloak around his waist so it wouldn’t tangle his legs, and crept forward.

The passage narrowed until he was half hunched over, and the light strengthened until…

He saw an end to the tunnel. An end covered by an iron grate, which overlooked a small stream with low, muddy banks. Arching over grate and stream was a wooden bridge. Numerous footsteps echoed off the bridge.

Relieved, Murtagh sank against the curved stone wall. From the stars in the sky and the moonlight on the water, he could tell that he and Silna had been in the tunnels for most of the night. It felt far longer.

They were still in Gil’ead; buildings were visible on either side of the bridge, and men of the guard marched along the banks of the stream, shouting directions to each other. It sounded like every soldier in the city had been roused, which was to be expected.

Silna crept up beside him. Her ears stood tall, and they swiveled to track the passing footsteps.

“Wait,” he whispered.

She flicked an ear and then, after a moment, settled onto her belly and tucked her tail around herself. It was the nearest she had come to him since he’d stopped carrying her. He could smell the musky scent of her wet fur, and the hairs along her tail tickled the back of his left hand.

Satisfied that she wasn’t about to run off on him, Murtagh risked sending an exploratory thought toward where he believed Thorn was hiding.

He found the dragon almost immediately, and he was far closer than Murtagh expected: only half a mile or so outside the city walls, amid a patch of wild roses.

A turbulent wave of joy, relief, and anger washed over him from Thorn. There you are! growled the dragon.

Here I am.

I thought I would have to tear Gil’ead apart stone by stone to find you.

It almost came to that, said Murtagh.

How went it? Did you rescue the—

Yes. But it isn’t safe to talk like this. What about you? Are you in any danger?