Christopher Paolini
Murtagh
As always, this is for my family.
And also for those who stand on the outside, looking in.
Argument
Behold, the land of Alagaësia, vast and verdant, full of mystery. Here stand mountains that scrape the stars, forests as fathomless as an ocean, deserts scorched to barrenness, and more besides. Throughout, one will find divers peoples and creatures, from hardy humans to long-lived elves to deep-dwelling dwarves to war-wedded Urgals. And above all else, dragons—bright and brilliant and terrifying in their ancient glory.
For the past century, King Galbatorix reigned as tyrant over most of the human-settled lands and was a terror to the other races as well. By his will, the dragons were broken, and their numbers much reduced until only few remained.
Those brave folk who opposed Galbatorix fled into the hinterlands, where they came to call themselves the Varden. There they dwelt, with little hope for victory, until the dragon Saphira hatched for the human Eragon.
Together—and under the wise leadership of the Lady Nasuada—they marched against Galbatorix’s Empire.
Now the king is slain, and the war to overthrow him is ended, and the land entered a state of renewal.
Yet even in this peace, shadows stir, and there are whispers of strange happenings about the edges of Alagaësia, and of these, one man seeks to know the truth….
—Quandaries 14–20
Atten the Red
PART I
Ceunon
CHAPTER I
Maddentide
Will you go alone?
Murtagh gave Thorn a quizzical look. The red dragon sat crouched next to him atop the rocky hill where they had landed. In the fading dusk, the sparkle of the dragon’s scales was subdued, tamped down like coals in a banked fire, waiting for a breath of wind to flare back to brilliance.
“What? You’d go with me?”
A wolfish grin split Thorn’s jaws, showing rows of sharp white teeth, each as long as a dagger. Why not? They already fear us. Let them scream and scurry at our arrival.
The dragon’s thoughts resonated like a bell in Murtagh’s mind. He shook his head as he unbuckled his sword, Zar’roc, from his waist. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Thorn’s jaws hung open wider, and his burred tongue ran across his chops. Maybe.
Murtagh could just picture Thorn stalking down a narrow street, scraping the sides of buildings with his armored shoulders, breaking beams and shutters and cornices while folks fled before him. Murtagh knew how that would end, with fire and blood and a flattened circle of destruction.
“I think you’d best wait here.”
Thorn shuffled his velvet wings and coughed deep in his throat. His way of laughing. Then perhaps you should use magic to change the color of my scales, and we could pretend to be Eragon and Saphira. Wouldn’t that be fine sport?
Murtagh snorted as he laid Zar’roc across a patch of dry grass. He’d been surprised to discover that Thorn had a trenchant sense of humor. It hadn’t been readily apparent when they’d been bonded, partly because of Thorn’s youth and partly because of…attending circumstances.
For a moment, Murtagh’s mood darkened.
No? Well then, if you change your mind—
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Mmm. With the tip of his snout, Thorn nudged the sword. I wish you would take your fang. Your claw. Your sharpened affliction.
Murtagh knew Thorn was nervous. He always was when Murtagh left, even for a short while. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
A puff of pale smoke rose from the dragon’s flared nostrils. I don’t trust that shark-mouthed skulker.
“I don’t trust anyone. Except for you.”
And her.
Murtagh faltered as he went to one of the saddlebags that hung along Thorn’s side. An image of Nasuada’s almond eyes flashed before him. Cheekbones. Teeth. Parts and pieces that failed to sum the whole. A memory of her scent, accompanied by a yearning and a sorrow, an aching absence for what might have been and now was lost.
“Yes.” He couldn’t have lied to Thorn even if he wanted to. They were too closely joined for that.
The dragon was kind enough to return the conversation to safer ground. Do you think Sarros has scented anything of interest?
“It would be better if he hasn’t.” Murtagh excavated a ball of brown twine from the saddlebag.
But if he has? Do we fly toward the storm or away?
A thin smile stretched Murtagh’s lips. “That depends on how violent the storm.”
It may not be obvious. The wind can lie.
He measured a length of twine. “Then we’ll continue sniffing about until it becomes obvious.”
Hmm. As long as we can still change course if need be.
“One hopes.”
Thorn’s near eye—a deep-set ruby that gleamed with a fierce inner light—remained fixed on Murtagh as he cut the twine and used it to tie Zar’roc’s crossguard to belt and scabbard so the crimson sword couldn’t slide free. Then he placed Zar’roc in the saddlebag, where it would be safe and hidden, and returned to stand before Thorn.
“I’ll be back before dawn.”
The dragon hunkered low on his haunches, as if braced to take a blow. He kneaded the ground with his curved claws, like a great cat kneading a blanket, and small rocks popped and cracked with explosive force between his talons. A low hum, almost a whine, came from his chest.
Murtagh laid a hand on Thorn’s jagged forehead and strove to impress a sense of calm and confidence on him. Dark chords of distress echoed in the depths of Thorn’s mindscape.
“I’ll be fine.”
If you need me—
“You’ll be there. I know.”
Thorn bent his neck, and his claws grew still. From his mind, Murtagh felt a hard—if brittle—resolve.
They understood each other.
“Be careful. Watch for any who might try to sneak up on you.”
Another bone-vibrating hum emanated from the center of Thorn’s chest.
Then Murtagh pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and started down the side of the hill, picking a path between jags of solitary stone and clusters of prickly hordebrush.
He looked back once to see Thorn still crouched atop the crest of the hill, watching with slitted eyes.
A man with a dragon was never truly alone.
So thought Murtagh as he headed west with a long, loose-limbed stride. No matter how many leagues separated him and Thorn, a part of them would always remain connected, even if the distance kept them from hearing each other’s thoughts or feeling each other’s emotions. Magic of the oldest kind joined them, and never would they be quit of it until one of them died.
Yet magic was not their only bond. The experiences he and Thorn had shared—the hardships, the mental attacks, the torture—had been so intense, so singular in nature, Murtagh didn’t think that anyone else could truly understand what they had endured.