The gathered men again laughed, and the crows above imitated them with harsh, chattering cries.
Then cultists came with food. Swirls of thick, sage-scented smoke drifted from the nearby braziers, clogging the air, and Bachel and the visitors fell to talking with avid desire. Murtagh could not follow the conversation. The incense made his eyes burn and his throat fill with phlegm, and it made it even harder to concentrate, and the food distracted him, although…he found himself strangely reluctant to eat the cut of boar meat placed before him. The meat no longer smelled sweet and savory, and its flavor had lost all appeal.
His gaze kept returning to the faces in front of him. Aside from the one who had spoken to him, he felt as if…as if he ought to know the man sitting by the end, on the right. Something about the man’s features lingered in Murtagh’s mind—an irritant that wouldn’t go away.
He put down his knife and stared at his plate, at the slices of meat that turned his stomach.
Beyond the rows of chairs, in the shadows by the entrance, Thorn sat curled on the mosaic, humming in a meaningless manner while Alín fed him scraps of boar.
Murtagh looked up. High above, in the shadowed vault of the ceiling, he thought he saw the pale circles of crow eyes looking down upon them, cold and cruel.
CHAPTER XIX
Choices
It was morning, and though the village remained warm as always, the wind from the mountains was bitter. The contrast made it seem all the worse. Curtains of snow drew across the ridged flanks of the Spine, shrouding the peaks in white, as if protecting their long-vanished virtue.
Murtagh stood next to Thorn, a cloak clasped around his neck; it felt familiar, but he could not recall where he had gotten it. A shield weighed down his left arm, and Bachel smiled as she handed him a pale sword. It was not Zar’roc—he had not seen the crimson blade since…since before—but it was the first weapon he could remember holding in…in…in…
He blinked.
“Go forth now, Kingkiller, and assist my men,” said Bachel, commanding, triumphant, savage. Her hard hand caressed the side of his cheek, and then she looked over at Thorn. “You will serve also, Dragon. Fly as you are told, and when you arrive, you may fight alongside your master.”
Thorn shivered and bowed his head. Yes. It was the first Murtagh had heard or felt from him since…
Grieve approached from across the courtyard. The man was garbed in a corselet of mail, a heavy mace in one hand and a buckler in the other.
“You will do as Grieve tells you,” said Bachel. “In this, he speaks on my behalf, and as he says, you shall do.”
Murtagh bowed his head.
Then the witch removed a vial from the sleeve of her black dress, unstoppered it, and blew the vaporous contents across him and Thorn. With his first inhalation of the Breath, Murtagh’s head grew light, and the courtyard grew even more distant, as if he were viewing it through a dwarven spyglass.
“My Lady,” Grieve said, bowing deeply.
A small smile formed on Bachel’s lips. She touched Grieve upon the crown of his head, and her lips moved silently before she said, “Go now and return quickly, that I might know it is done.”
“As you wish.”
At Grieve’s command, Murtagh sheathed the sword in the scabbard hanging from his belt and climbed onto Thorn’s back. The saddle was already in place. Out of habit, he slipped his legs through the straps on either side and tightened them.
Grieve followed him onto Thorn’s back and settled between the spikes behind Murtagh. The nearness of the man was uncomfortable, and even more so when Murtagh felt a sharp poke in his ribs. He looked and saw a dagger pressed against his side.
“Move with care, Rider,” said Grieve between set teeth. “Else you will not move again.”
Murtagh did not react. In a distracted, uninterested manner, the thought came to him that he would like to kill Grieve.
Grieve tapped Thorn’s neck. “Now fly, beast!”
And with a sweep of wings, Thorn leaped from the ground, and they were airborne.
At Grieve’s direction, Thorn flew out of the cleft that contained Nal Gorgoth and turned north to follow the shoreline of the Bay of Fundor. By the mouth of the valley, where the river poured into the bay, Murtagh saw a vessel docked at the wooden quay: a tall sailing vessel, trim and shapely, with a clinker-built hull as was common in Ceunon.
Flurries of snow assailed them as they continued northward. Winter was deepening; it would not be long before the mountains were impassable for those on foot.
The air smelled strange to Murtagh. It took him a long while to understand why: it no longer stank of brimstone. Rather, it was clear and cold and fresh—invigorating in its purity.
Never had air seemed so…so delicious.
Tracks of many animals marked the blanket of white below: rabbits and deer and bears and more besides. Their spoor traced veinlike patterns across the landscape, a map of the movements of life itself, more random than the coursing of water but more meaningful by far.
Among the game trails, a single line of dark, beaten earth ran along the shore. Too straight and regular to have been made by any dumb beast, there was no mistaking its nature: a human-made trail, cleared of snow by many feet. A group on horses, perhaps, or else travelers moving on foot, which seemed unlikely given the place and season. Whatever the answer, the group could not have been far ahead, else the snow would have obscured the trail, bleached it of color, and made it difficult to follow.
A gull loosed a harsh cry over the water and swerved away to the east as Thorn came near.
For half the morning they flew, blindly following Grieve’s orders. When he said turn, Thorn turned. When he said go up or go down, then too Thorn obeyed. And all the while Murtagh sat bolt upright in the saddle, his face blank, the skin on his cheeks so cold he couldn’t feel it.
He would act when needed—or when told—but otherwise there was nothing for him to do but exist.
At last, a knot of horsemen appeared along the shoreline. When they saw Thorn, they reined in their steeds.
“Land,” Grieve commanded.
As Thorn descended, the horses shied before him, and the riders had to fight to hold them in place. On the ground, the truth became evident: the band of men was one of the three groups of warriors Bachel had dispatched from Nal Gorgoth.
“How close are the Orthroc?” Grieve asked.
One of the men pointed forward, toward a hogbacked ridge covered with pinetrees. “On the other side of that rise. They’re gathered by a creek while they water their horses, but they’ll be on the move again soon enough.”
Murtagh felt rather than saw Grieve nod. “Excellent. You’ll attack on my mark. The dragon and Rider will take the lead, but you must make sure to leave room for the dragon. Your horses will spook, and I cannot promise that Rider or dragon will behave as intended.”
The warrior before them snorted, and the other horsemen laughed with grim humor. “They’re so enthralled, they don’t know where they are,” said one, a short, straw-haired man with a red nose and frost on his eyelashes.
“Never mind that,” said Grieve shortly. “Bachel waits on us, and we must needs not disappoint her.” Then Murtagh again felt the poke of Grieve’s dagger in his ribs. “Now then. You and Thorn will fly forward and attack the Orthroc on the other side of this ridge. Capture their supplies and kill all who stand before you, but should any of the Orthroc flee, you are not to pursue them. Leave that to my men. Do you understand?”